


Agapē

by kraptos



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: A highly self indulgent and highly implausible AU that is sort of canon compliant, Ancient Greece was gross, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Grief/Mourning, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No Incest, Past Child Abuse, Past Underage Sex, Past underage sex is between two characters who are both underage and is vaguely depicted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:10:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 103,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kraptos/pseuds/kraptos
Summary: “I've missed you.” It was spoken mindlessly. A fact. Kratos had missed him, too, though he said nothing of it.





	1. Chapter 1

The boy had been left at home under the watchful eyes of the head. Atreus had proven himself over the course of their journey; Kratos trusted him to survive a few hours alone while he hunted. The winter drew on, bitterly cold. Midgard felt more like Helheim with each passing day. _Fimbulwinter_. If Kratos did not believe in it before, he did now.

Without the warmth of the fire magic harnessed in his blades, he found himself in a fur-lined tunic. He had harvested the skin from a hibernating bear, a lesson his son was unappreciative of. He felt it unfair to take advantage of a slumbering beast, but Kratos was a large man and it would take many wolves to clothe him. Their populations dwindling, the animals drew thinner and thinner over the weeks. Occasionally they wandered across their scattered bones, picked clean by starving predators. Any meat they found, they kept frozen in the crawlspace beneath the house, be it a fresh kill or remains. It had been days since Kratos had so much as heard the trees rustle with much more than the wind, which whipped cruelly throughout the short days, and grew with feverish intensity into the night. The shortage of game and venison forced him out of their woods and deep into Midgard’s wilds. It felt strange to travel alone, which was an oddity in and of itself. The years between Atreus's birth and Faye's death had been spent doing nothing but.

Regardless of his feelings past or current, Atreus was safer at home than out here. He took his solace in that, and abandoned his emotions as best he could. If he could not find food, it would not matter how safe their home was. Atreus’s sickness had yet to rear its head again, he trusted the witch to be correct to her word, mostly. Against his wishes, he had told the truth. His son knew of their natures. It was the cure to a curse he had unknowingly forced his child to bear. There was much he wished to change, though he chastised himself for humoring such thoughts. He could only better himself, use guilt as a driving force and not a weight to bear needlessly. He must find food. The damage Atreus’s bouts of illness carved into his organs was something Kratos feared often. The curse was lifted, but what of its lasting effects? Would Atreus truly be healthy? Keeping him fed and out of the weather were the only ways Kratos knew to hold his remission steady.

Movement pulled him out of his head.

Through the gentle snowfall, he saw an outline of a deer, underweight and fragile. A female. She left trails in the thick snow with her snout, rooting for anything to fill her belly. Kratos did not dare move. He did not breathe. Snow rested in frigid piles atop his shoulders as he ignored the ache in his legs, partly from the cold and partly from kneeling in place for so long. He was not sure how long he had been here, atop the small clearing, hidden in a tangled mass of frost-dusted brush. The snow had filled in all the tracks he had come across, making them hard to read. Hopefully, that would no longer matter.

Kratos took his axe from his back, judging his throw. He must wait for the correct moment. There were no excuses. He was upwind, out of sight. There was no birdsong, not a single distant howl of a wolf. He brought Leviathan around his right side, grip tight on the handle. The metal detail of the Huldra brother’s work was icy, enough that it felt as if it were burning through the thick skin of his palm. He did not let it draw his attention, keeping his focus locked onto the doe. He took a deep, calming breath. Another. Alerted, the deer lifted her head, grating decaying leaves between her molars. Her ears perked, rotating to follow the rattling of tree branches in a gust of wind. It had not been him that she had heard. She widened her stance, lowered her head, and continued to graze. Kratos readied himself, raising his axe higher. He brought his left hand to join his right on the grip. His movements were nothing more than a creep, subtle, as he aimed for a kill—

A spear sailed from Kratos’s left-hand side, down in the clearing from between the skeletons of trees. It missed the doe by several feet, startling her into a run. It took him too long to react, and he lost sight of her, caught up in his surprise. He did not stumble upon humans often, nor did they him. Growling in his throat in frustration, he started to climb to his feet, his knees protesting the movement. Before he could stand, a man came barreling into the clearing. Kratos boiled at the sight of him, now having something other than himself to direct his anger at. He returned Leviathan to its hook, clambering down from the ridge he had situated himself atop of. He had planned to leave, follow the tracks and claim his kill; ignore the man and hope he had intimidated him out of his foolish pursuit. He landed on his feet at the edge of the clearing with a labored breath, stalking forward silently with his fists at his sides. He did not have time for confrontation. The man stood stiff, halting the retrieval of his weapon. Kratos allowed his gaze to drift down to it, his heart kicking up in his chest as the man began to stammer, attempting to put together sounds that made sense. A dory. The spear was Spartan. Worn with age. Slowly, he raised his eyes, blood running cold in his veins. He recognized this man. He was no stranger.

“Atreus.”

He had lost Atreus in Greece, a lifetime ago. He'd gone missing in war, and Kratos had searched the bodies for as long as he could stand looking for him. He had begun frantic, terrified, turning them over one by one before they were to be buried. His men had said nothing, knowing well what he had lost.

Thinking about it left the phantoms of their weight heavy against his palms. He flexed his fingers into tight fists. Atreus did not notice. He had never feared him, even now, with the awe of recognition spreading across his face. Kratos knew what was next before it came—Atreus smiled widely. It highlighted wrinkles Kratos did not remember. It was hard to see. No one should look at him like that after all he had done.

“ _Kratos_.” The word sounded like relief. Kratos did and said nothing. If it were not for his tattoo, then he likely could have slipped away. The doe was long gone. It would be difficult and time consuming to track her now. Without warning, Atreus pulled him into a hug, on his toes in order to hook his chin over Kratos’s shoulder. Kratos did not return the embrace, even if the press of their bodies felt just as he remembered. Then, he held him at arm's length, checking him over (Kratos presumed) for injuries. Inwardly, he flinched, knowing it was only a matter of time before the shock value dissipated enough for the shade of his skin to be noticed.

“You have grown,” Atreus said, brimming with pride. He had not. The land here had changed him. Hard work had changed him. Even still, all these years later, Atreus had the inexplicable capacity to make him feel like a child. The thought was cut short when icy fingers threaded through his beard and chapped lips were pressed tight to his own. Atreus pulled back before Kratos could push him away. He was very glad to have left the boy at home. “I am sorry.” Nervous laughter peppered his words. It did things to Kratos's insides he did not care to recognize. “I do not know if you have a wife.”

“I did,” Kratos said, voice soft as if to explain. Faye's death pulled heavy at his heart, a sharp contrast to the flutter in his stomach.

“I am... deeply sorry to hear that. I am sure she was a fine woman for you to treasure her.”

Kratos ignored the sentiment. Atreus did not know her and he never would. His words were empty and meant nothing. They brought him no comfort. Beyond that, Kratos did not know what he wanted from this. He needed time to process. To think and to be alone. Before he could turn and pursue the doe, more words left his mouth. Making him speak was something else Atreus had a talent for. “You are not dead?”

Atreus laughed like it was a joke, letting his hands fall to Kratos's chest. He was thankful his clothes covered his scars. “No. No, I am quite obviously not. Why are you not in Greece? You had so much ahead of you the last I saw. A promotion. A wife. A child on the way. What drove you to leave?”

The words left Kratos’s lips before he could think any better of it. “That is none of your concern.” It was a defensive reflex to be so guarded about his past. He wished deeply that he had said nothing at all. Concern spread across Atreus’s features, the fine lines of his brow deepening. Kratos felt the interrogation that was sure to come. They both knew well that their state was something he had held near to his heart. He wanted nothing more than to be loyal and to serve. A lot had changed since Atreus’s disappearance. The silence between them grew thick and awkward. Kratos could not remember a time when it had before. He ignored the deep ache that set in behind his ribs. They had grown. They were nothing but children when they had laid eyes on each other last. Things were far different now. To assume they would not be was foolish.

The wind howled in the empty branches of the trees above. Snow collected in dusty patches on their clothing. Kratos could not make himself walk away, as much as he knew he should. It would be in the best interest for both of them. He had no intention of letting Atreus know of his past, of what lead him here to this very moment. Logic was to not trust him. He had killed the kin of Odin. This very well may be a trick. He would do whatever it took to keep his son safe. Atreus would not learn of the boy until he was sure this was legitimate. Kratos took a deep breath and a step backward, grounding himself in reality. This was likely not real. Atreus had died in war decades ago, lost somewhere under the ruin of the battlefield. He had not run away, he had not survived. A lack of remains was not ample evidence for him to be alive and breathing now.

“I must go,” Kratos said, trying to command the fondness out of his tone. This was not real, he reminded himself, again and again. Just as Zeus was not real in Hel, Atreus of Sparta was a figment of his imagination. Athena was not real, nothing and no one had come to belittle him when he had traveled home for the blades.

“Do not.” Atreus stepped forward after him, expression serious, and Kratos’s fingers itched for a weapon. He left Leviathan in its hook on his back. Violence solved nothing. It had taken everything from him. If this was not trickery, then he would not let it take Atreus from him again. “Come home with me,” he said, hand out like he was coaxing a frightened animal. “Just for a while. It is cold, a break from the weather would do you good. I will make us some stew. We Greeks are not accustomed to snow like this.” Kratos, rathering not to be reminded of where he had lost everything, sighed. He could not say no. He could not. At his silence, Atreus laughed, no less awkward or nervous than before, “Ah, I see how it is, I mention food and _now_ you are considering spending time with me after all these years apart. Perhaps you have not changed as much as I feared.”

He should not. His son was alone waiting for his return. Kratos had yet to find food for them. Though, if he were to come home empty-handed, it would not be the first time. Hunting in this weather was near impossible, the snow alone had sent him home many times as of recent. Heavy snowfall carried with it poor visibility. He could not hunt if he could not see. Kratos wet his lips, attempting to think with logic at the forefront of his mind. “How far?”

Atreus appeared perplexed, somehow the emotion read true even around his widening grin. “How far is what?”

Kratos did not speak. With Atreus standing in front of him, it felt instinctual to open his mouth. Instead, he clenched his jaw. If Atreus could not figure it out on his own, then he would not go. It would be as simple as that.

“My home?”

He grunted. An affirmative.

“Ah, of course! It is not far. I am a man of Greece, not of the wilds. I never go far if I can help it.”

The ambiguity was unsettling at best, but he would regret this chance if he let go of it. “Fine,” Kratos said, sounding defeated, “lead us, then.”

Atreus said nothing, though his smile remained anchored to his lips, a slight upturn around the corners. He had won; no matter how far he had gone, it was a part of him he would never lose. All Spartans enjoyed a victory, no matter how small. As much as he hated it, Kratos was no exception. He watched Atreus heft his spear from where it had stuck, shallow, in the frozen earth and shoulder it. It was freshly sharpened. Kratos withheld himself from correcting his form. Anger broiled low in his gut at himself for the annoyance. These were parts of him he had left behind. It did not matter how a man in the woods held a spear. Kratos was no longer a captain or a general. He had come here to live as a man and nothing more. He did not move, even as Atreus began westward. Already, he was seeing pieces of himself he thought he had buried. This was not a good idea.

“Are you coming? I cannot lead you anywhere if you will not follow.” It was spoken as nothing more than a casual reminder, but it dredged up many memories. Atreus reminding him to be careful the night before his herd graduated from sticks to spears, fearful of the death he had witnessed. Atreus reminding him never to be caught outside his barracks at night after curfew. Atreus reminding him to steal food only when necessary and to never be caught. Atreus reminding him not to cry during a flogging, unless he wanted one before bed each night until he could take it without shedding tears.

Breathing deeply, Kratos steadied himself, willing his memories to leave him be. They were not entirely unpleasant, simply a distraction. A comfort he had no use for with Atreus in front of him. He lifted his feet, reluctantly following. They traveled in quiet, Atreus making no indication of wanting a conversation. Kratos did not know how to take it. Atreus enjoyed the sound of his own voice, he always had. Was this a sign of Odin’s trickery? A detail he had miscalculated. Whatever the reason, he took it as an opportunity to memorize the path, taking note of every rock and tree. He would return to his son, no matter what awaited him.

What did, however, was no trap. Their path opened to a small clearing, with a rickety log home sitting in the middle. It sagged with age, obvious patches where Atreus had replaced rotting timbers. Smoke rose lazily, mixing with the falling snow before a gust of wind blew it away.

“Here we are. It is not much. They taught us to be soldiers, yet nothing of architecture.” Again, anxious laughter fell around Atreus’s words. Kratos wished dearly he would stop speaking of their homeland. He made no comment, allowing Atreus to open the door for him. Against his better judgment, he entered first.

There was no ambush. Just the glowing remains of a fire smoldering in the corner. A bed close by, unmade. Haphazard shelving. A creaky wooden floor. A wobbly table and stools. It was a home by any standards. Perhaps this was real. It was time to lower his guard. If this was Atreus, then there was no need for it. Kratos found his voice as Atreus skirted around him to place more wood on the fire. Warmth seeped into his frozen clothing. “How long have you lived in these woods?”

“Many years,” Atreus answered, agitating the coals with the tip of his dory, “since I left. I went as far north as I could stand, and settled. I see you kept true to that, as well.”

He did. He had destroyed Greece and traveled to the only other place that might have felt like home. “Yes.” There was no use making excuses, it was obvious to both of them why he had chosen to come here over anywhere else. “I did.”

With the fire burning low in the hearth, Atreus turned his attention back to Kratos, his spear left leaning against the wall. It was odd to see him aged. The fire cast deep shadows in the valleys of every crease. Kratos allowed himself to wonder if Atreus thought it strange as well. He had spent all this time apart picturing Atreus as young as he'd seen him last. That was not the case. The light from the fire glinted off the silver strands in his hair, breaking up the monotony of his chestnut curls. They had lost their volume with age. Kratos fought against the sudden temptation to run his hand through them.

Fortunately, his train of thought was interrupted by Atreus. “I've missed you.” It was spoken mindlessly. A fact. Kratos had missed him, too, though he said nothing of it. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the far wall. “My _viking man_ ,” Atreus sighed, crossing his arms against his chest. Kratos imagined it was to prevent himself from touching him. He kept his firmly at his sides. “You grew the beard as you said you would. I like it much better, I think.”

Kratos's response was automatic. “You act as if I were hideous.” Atreus brightened, laughing genuinely. The sound was just as Kratos remembered it, dredging up ghosts of cherished memories. Ones he drew upon for strength or solace. Fighting the twitching corners of his lips, Kratos prompted him further, which only did the opposite of relieving Atreus from his hysterics. “Well?”

“No, no! You were _not_.” He sucked in a breath, eyes glassy. It was from more than his mirth. “I simply never understood the, the—” he made a gesture as if he were scratching his chin, “the goatee.”

The action brought Kratos's gaze down to his jawline, where he noticed the short stubble hugging close to his skin. It was speckled with gray, a reminder of how much time they had lost. “I see you are much the same.” The comment was distant.

“I am. After you, I could not dare change it.”

Kratos took the subsequent silence that grew between them as an opportunity. He peered down his nose at Atreus, their slight height difference the same as he recalled it. He could remember being much smaller than him, far in the past. This close, he could smell the woodsmoke clinging to the thick cloak he was wrapped in; could see the where the damp patches of snowmelt were slowly beginning to dry. Atreus was watching his face carefully, Kratos noted. He was careful to ensure his expression did not change. He could not show him any weakness yet. Though what he was feeling was very much that: weak. It was no revelation. He had known it the entire life he had lived after Atreus's disappearance. To this day he still loved him no less. He thought of him often, when he felt hopeless or on long nights where sleep could not find him. He'd spoken softly of him to Faye countless times. She had been well aware of the nature of their relationship. She likely had inferred the gaping hole Kratos still felt in the wake of his absence. The closure he had never gotten. The body he had never recovered. All because Atreus had been alive the entire time. He had been living in the woods where he always said he would go, so close yet just out of reach.

He did not regret Faye. He missed her dearly. She had healed many wounds for him, ones Atreus likely could not have. She allowed him a second chance at being a husband, and later, a father. He had redeemed himself. He had lost her to nature and not to his own hands. His boy was safe and healthy, learning to find happiness again without her. He had been absent, yes, but he provided for his family. They never had gone hungry and Atreus had never wanted to be like him. It had been worth it. It was something Kratos could not change. He was fixing their relationship now, to the best of his ability. He was doing better, he could lay hands on his child, comfort him. He told him stories before bed, even if he often believed him too old. He cooked. He cleaned. He hunted. He did his best to involve his son in everything he did. These were things he would never give up, for any reason. Had he found Atreus before Faye, he would not have been a father again. He would not have proved himself to be good, more man than monster. Atreus was proud of his heritage, even if it was the very thing that drove him so far away. It would have provided Kratos nothing to find him first.

Even still, he was glad to cross paths now. If this was no craft of the gods. If the Atreus standing in front of him was as real as the one he had grown up alongside, then it was time for him to carry on. It would be what she would want for him. He hoped dearly she would not be disappointed, which was unwise. She was dead. Faye was gone. She did not care what he did.

“Praise be to the gods,” said Atreus, his words cutting sharply through the quiet that had filled his home. “They have answered so many of my prayers. I wanted nothing more than to see you again, but I was sure it was too selfish.”

It was something Kratos had not stopped to consider before this moment. That even if Atreus had run away, deserted his people, he had not abandoned his culture completely. He worshipped gods that no longer existed. A very strange and uncomfortable guilt gnawed him at the realization. “You… still praise the gods?”

“You do not?” Atreus seemed surprised, his brows raising, mouth twisting into a puzzled frown. “I did not hate Sparta, Kratos, nor our gods.” Kratos took a deep, silent breath at his choice of words, but did not interrupt. “I did not enjoy war. I did not enjoy being told who I could marry.”

Ignoring his question, Kratos opted to change the subject. “You are lucky they did not find you.”

“I know.” Atreus hardened with determination like he predicted this being the subject of a coming argument he must try to win. Kratos’s demeanor did not change.

“You would have been killed.” It was unthinkable to desert battle, to desert his people, his state. His duty. Atreus would have been used to make an example.

“You think I do not realize that? It was a long time ago. I do not regret it. I am happier for it. Leave it be.” He shed his cloak, the rigidity in his movements reeking of anger as he draped it over his arm. “I was supposed to cook us something to eat, wasn’t I?” His tone was forced, a fake pleasantness. He sounded tired. Annoyed. He dropped the cloak onto the bed and rummaged through the stores of food on his shelves. In the meantime, Kratos busied himself with wandering slowly around his quaint home, inspecting whatever he came across. They did not speak for a long while, until he had run out of things to look at and reluctantly took a seat at the table. Atreus did not immediately react, holding his gaze strictly between his folded hands and the pot of stew over the fire. It smelled earthy and of spices Faye had often used. Finally, he made eye contact. “I know you think it is none of my concern, but you can tell me why it is you came here. I am in no position to judge.”

“I believe it is none of your concern because it is not.” Kratos spoke it as a quiet fact. He owed Atreus nothing. Something curled into a knot inside his chest, hard and unbidden. Emotions he had never allowed himself to feel or consider. It was not time to begin now.

Atreus turned in his seat, fully facing his houseguest. He seemed displeased, mouth downturned. It was strange to see him not wearing a smile. Even if Kratos had seen him without it countless times before, it never felt less foreign. “Is it? You used to tell me everything. I did not expect that to change.”

“I am not the man you remember, Atreus. You know nothing of what has happened.” It was the truth. Kratos had become a monster. A murderer beyond the expectations of any Spartan. He had been mad with grief and power, driven by the wretched hand of vengeance. No matter what or who he killed, it had never been enough. On the rare occasion he allowed himself to reflect, to remember, it frightened him. If anything, he was thankful that Atreus had deserted Greece before he had lost everything and become the man he regretted. It meant he had no knowledge of the things he had done, the sins he had committed. Atreus only knew him as Kratos of Sparta, an ambitious, newly promoted warrior. There had been nothing to hide then. He brushed away the bittersweet nostalgia.

“Then tell me. You do not seem much different, headstrong as you ever were.” It is a weak attempt at a joke, one of which neither of them react to.

There was nothing to be done about the anger the unwelcome prompting fed. It was in defense and Kratos let himself feel it. “I do not know how many times I must repeat myself,” he snapped, “but if I say it is none of your concern then it is so. If you have been so interested in what has become of me then I fail to understand why you fled Sparta.” The resulting silence of his outburst was deafening. The wind outside was devoid of its usual howling. Kratos took several deep breaths to calm himself.

Atreus was far from being intimidated. The degree to which his features softened was criminal. Kratos could not comprehend how this man could still pity him so. “What are you so afraid of, my love?”

It took him several minutes to find an answer. Kratos did not know what he feared. He shielded the truth from his son to prevent his mistakes from being repeated. He feared rejection from the man he admired most. The man that raised him to be better than what he was. He had destroyed his gods, his homeland. He did not deserve any ounce of forgiveness or love Atreus had to offer. The more he considered it, the more he could not decide which was worse. For Atreus to learn of his past and hate him for it or to accept him still. Finally, he decided on a quiet “...I do not know.”

“It will be alright.” Sick curiosity lined his words like fine lace. Kratos felt himself grimace in annoyance. “If you cannot name it, then there is nothing for you to fear. You are only trying to find something to be afraid of, and there is no reason for you to be. There is nothing you can do to make me stop caring for you.”

Even if the words were not spoken, Kratos heard them clearly. _If there is nothing for you to fear, then you can tell me._ “That is enough, Atreus.” He felt as if he was speaking to his son. “I will tell you when… or if I deem it time and no sooner.”

“Fine.” Atreus’s answer was quick and unhappy. He stood, smoothing the rough material of his tunic, and left the table to tend to dinner. He did not return until it was finished and Kratos did not offer his help in setting the table. He ate only once Atreus began to. They did not speak until Kratos stood to leave, moving towards the door, leaving his empty dish where it had been placed.

“Wait,” came Atreus’s call. He stood, following him. “The days are short and the sun is already setting. Stay the night with me, just this once. I have missed you.” Hesitant, as if he were considering his manners, he laid his hands on Kratos’s chest, palms down and open. “My bed has been empty for all these years.”

Kratos backed away a single step, and Atreus’s hands dropped to his sides. He could not leave his son. He was expected to return tonight, before dark.

“Just for tonight. You are free to say no, but you cannot tell me you have not longed for this as well.” The drop in his tone was subtle, but Kratos had heard it for years. He knew exactly what Atreus was implying, and while he did not have the heart to say no, he did not plan on doing anything more than resting if he were to stay here. There were many scars under his clothes he did not wish to explain. Not now. He touched the wrappings on his forearm gently, thankful to have worn them. The wounds were not something he wished to hide from his son any longer, but they still blistered and bled. It was better to keep them clean and dressed.

“Just for tonight,” Kratos echoed. “I must leave as soon as the sun rises.”

“There is no rush,” Atreus countered quickly, no trace of his frown to be seen. He moved forward, closing the distance between them. Again, his hands came to rest on Kratos’s chest. “If you have no wife, then there is no reason for it. You live alone, do you not?”

The lie was automatic. “Yes, but there are things I must tend to, regardless. You do not know everything about me. Not anymore.”

“Perhaps I will again, given the time. And if given the chance.” His hands slipped up to cradle Kratos’s face. He grunted in return and did not move to pull away. He had taken this for granted. He would no longer, not tonight. “Come. To bed with us now, I will tidy up once you have gone.”

His accent was thick. Unmistakably Greek in the way it molded his words. Kratos had lost his almost entirely. It was something that did not upset him. He was always willing to let go of any ties to Sparta. Except Atreus, apparently. It disgusted him that he was willing to abandon his son for the night just to lay with this man. He had accepted him as being dead long ago when he had constructed a headstone bearing his name, no body to fill the ground below it. It was childish to cling to him so willingly, to fall deep into the pit of temptation in a matter of hours. If he gave himself a taste, he would want another. And another. It would be a cycle he could not end. Kratos knew this. He told himself it was not worth it. Like everything, this would end painfully.

Then, he realized he did not care. One night would not bring an end to him or to his son. It was insignificant in the scheme of things. In the past weeks, he had raised Atreus to be self-sufficient. Capable. It would do no harm to let himself enjoy something. It was only one night. He would not come back.

Atreus led him to the bed, pushing away his cloak and the tousled blankets to make room for them. “After you,” he said, his voice tender. A soft, familiar playfulness began to sneak into his words. Something Kratos had grown unaccustomed to hearing. He had known with such finality he never would again. This entire day felt like a dream. The kind that did not end in shaking hands and cold sweat. He nodded, once, and sat to slip off his boots. He propped his axe against the wall near the bed, close, so the recall would take no longer than a moment. He left his knife at his hip. It would not be the most comfortable sleeping arrangement, but he could not trust this. Not yet. Fully clothed, he began to shuffle to the far side of the straw mattress. Atreus did not join him, instead raising his voice again. “Are you… going to sleep like that?” His tone was an odd cross between annoyed and humored. “You may take off your clothes, Kratos. No need to be modest. I have missed you. All of you.”

“I am fine,” Kratos said coldly. It was not that he was disinterested. He trusted this enough to stay, but not to make himself vulnerable. He rolled onto his side to face the wall, reaching down in the same motion to pull the furs up over himself. He tucked them under his arm and closed his eyes, willing Atreus to cease speaking.

“I understand.” Disappointed acceptance. It would do. There was the soft rustling of clothing as Atreus readied himself for bed. Otherwise, the air in the house was still. Atreus settled in place behind him, pressing up close. It earned a sigh from both of them, Atreus chuckling afterward against Kratos’s shoulder. “It is just as I remember.” It was. The clothes between them were an unusual barrier. Even still, the fit of their bodies was much as it had always been.

“Hm.” Affirmative. Kratos was finished talking for the night. He needed rest. He was to return home early in the morning, hopefully while his son slept. He could perhaps spin a lie that he came home late into the nighttime hours after the boy had fallen asleep.

It was silent for many moments. The house creaked against gusts of wind, they drove frigid drafts between the planks of the walls. Atreus shivered against his back. Kratos picked at the wrappings over his forearm in anticipation of questions sure to come. However, as the minutes drew on, they did not. Atreus hesitantly slid an arm around his side, holding him around the waist. When Kratos made no objections, he fit his other arm under the curve of his neck. Neither of them spoke. Kratos watched the flickering shadows cast by the fire and demanded they not surface any memories.

“Are you not happy?” The sudden breach of silence nearly startled him. “I have wanted nothing more than to be with you since we were children. I was under the impression you wanted the same. If that is not so, then you do not have to accommodate my wishes.” Kratos did not answer. He did not know how. “You treat this as if it is a burden instead of a gift.” Again, Kratos said nothing. “Are you not going to answer me? I may not understand what it is to have caused you to change, but I do not wish for it to take this away from you as well. I am not my only concern in this, no matter what you may think.” Frustrated, Atreus withdrew from him, leaving bed entirely to place more wood on the fire. From what Kratos could hear, it was done with entirely too much force. Guilt rose within him.

When Atreus returned, he adopted the same position, pressing a kiss to the pelt adorning Kratos’s shoulder. His regret was genuine. Tangible. “I should not be so harsh with you.” Kratos trailed his hand down to where Atreus’s fingers were pressed flat against the muscles of his stomach. Sweetly, he fit his in the spaces between. It spoke everything he could not bring himself to say. _I have missed you every day. I love you no less, even after all this time. I want you more than I have ever wanted anyone._ Atreus squeezed his fingers tight, relaxing against his back. Kratos allowed himself to sleep.

~

Being a Spartan was much harder than Kratos expected. He had thought he prepared himself well, practiced with dory and shield since he had the capacity to hold them. He had trained until the other children would not dare face him and had to bully Deimos into braving his wrath. When taken from his home, he had handled himself well: he had not cried, had not looked back, knowing he’d be brought here to learn the craft of war _legitimately_. He excelled in his educational studies as well as physical, striving to be the best and strongest version of himself, his only goal to be better than he had been the day before. Now, he found this resolve being tested. It was not out of the ordinary. Everything was a test here, brutal and unforgiving, with the options only being survival or punishment and possible death.

His herd had reached the age to begin the next stage of training, stripped of the clothes on their backs and given red robes to last them the year. Already, he had ripped his pulling reeds from the river to fashion a bed. Stained it with mud from the riverbanks. He did not know how they expected him to wear it for so long when it narrowly endured the day. Obviously, there had been young Spartans before him that had made theirs last. He would simply have to do the same. His elders knew what they were doing, and he took comfort in the fact. They would make him a Spartan regardless of his doubts and shortcomings.

At this age, he could request an inspirer whenever he wished. No other boys in his herd had yet to, and he was, as always, determined to be the first to pave the way. He knew no fear; he was strong. Smart. Any inspirer would be pleased to take him on as their hearer, and he, in turn, would do anything to earn their respect and gain from their experience and wisdom. Surely it would serve to aid in his survival, allow him to flourish even through the darkest of times he encountered. Even now, being forced to sleep outside on the reeds he had woven, given only enough food that was necessary to live, it would help.

He had requested to paired the morning after he had finished weaving his bed, and his herder had laughed loud and hard, expecting as much out of him, and shouted for the other boys to as well, to be like him, follow in his footsteps, show only courage in the face of the unknown. Kratos had felt pride in himself, a leader as he always was.

The wait had lasted mere days, but it had been excruciating. Several boys, not to be bested by him, had asked to be paired in the time that passed. He paid it no mind and felt no emotion toward it. He had been the first and he had been temporarily exalted for it. That was all that mattered. He remained as patient as he could, but at night he wondered often of who he would be paired with. The most contact he had with the older boys were occasions when the elders allowed them to see to their punishments. They were, as was common consensus, far more ruthless and cruel than the adults were, whipping them bloody and broken. A boy in his herd had succumbed to his wounds the first time they had been left in charge, an example set. Kratos could only hope he would be assigned to someone that ferocious, it was what he needed to become should he make it through this.

His herder had come for him just before they were to bed down for the night. Heart battering his ribs, he had been lead away roughly by the arm to the edge of the woods where a boy not much older than himself stood. Kratos did not recognize him. He was taller, lean, and wrapped in a red cloak that was as battered as Kratos’s own. His inspirer greeted him with a grin. It was a rare sight, and while this one seemed genuine, Kratos did not trust it. He knew of the nature of these relationships. Once his herder left him be with this boy, there was no telling what was in store for him. He clenched his fists to quell the shaking of his hands.

Neither of them spoke until they were alone.

“I was hoping to get you, Spartan,” his inspirer said. “Already you fight like a seasoned warrior.”

It was by far the highest compliment Kratos had received. He tried to let it calm his nerves. Before even meeting his inspirer, he had been highly regarded. He wondered how skilled he was, how hard it would be to take him if he pulled a spear from behind his back now. Kratos had no weapon. A fool’s mistake. Instead of responding, he observed his inspirer’s every move, calculating the time it would take him to scramble a safe distance away were this interaction to take a turn. Minutes dragged on, his inspirer looking at him, expectant of words. Kratos caved and gave him what he wanted. “So I’ve been told.”

His reply startled a laugh out of him. Kratos shifted his weight, uneasy. “I cannot tell if you are being modest or boastful.” They shared another tense silence in which he fully expected, again, to be challenged to a round of sparring. Instead, his inspirer kept speaking, an activity he seemed fond of. Kratos began to wonder what cruel joke was being played on him by the elders, pairing him up with this child. “I can already tell that you’re going to make my role much easier.”

“Are you saying there is nothing you can teach me?”

“I’m saying there is much I can teach you, but I have heard of you, seen you fight. You are skilled, serious. If anything, I can teach you to lighten up.” He took Kratos by the shoulder, shaking him good-naturedly. The joke fell flat. Kratos brushed his hand away, annoyed.

“You act as if there is something wrong with that.”

“There is a time and a place. Letting yourself enjoy things is not a weakness.”

Kratos wondered how he had lived this long. “I enjoy things,” he started, indignant and perhaps a bit desperate to find common footing. “I do not have to look like a clown to enjoy something.” This was meant to be a lifelong bond. He was supposed to look up to this boy, admire him. So far he did not find himself any shade of impressed.

It took his inspirer a moment to unpack the insult. “Smiling does not make you weak, either.” He did not hesitate to illustrate his point when Kratos simply huffed through his nose. “I should introduce myself.” He extended his forearm, which Kratos took after minimal indecision. His hands were still shaking. There was not much to be done about it, and he tried to accommodate by keeping his grasp firm. They shook once. “Atreus.” Kratos said nothing. “Are you unnamed? Should I give you one myself?.”

“That is not necessary.” Again, Atreus let them brew in quiet until it Kratos felt as if he had to speak. “Kratos.”

“That is a fine name. Fit for a warrior as strong as yourself.” Kratos simply stared at him. Atreus sighed and gestured to the ground they stood upon. “Sit.” They did. Side by side, overlooking the scattered herds of young Spartans settling in for sleep. From here, Kratos could make out his empty mat. “What would you like to learn?”

“You are going to fight me?”

“No. Not yet. There are things outside of that.”

Kratos fiddled with the cloth of his robes, picking at where it frayed about a tear. When he raised his eyes, Atreus smiled warmly. Kratos did not return it. “These rags. How do you make them last?”

“Mm. That is a good question. You should tie it up higher, so it does not drag the ground. Sew any rips as soon as you get the chance.”

Kratos tugged at his cloak, growing uncomfortable and feeling rather stupid. “I was not given a needle or thread.”

Atreus shoved him playfully. “Of course you were not! You must be resourceful—make it. Plant fibers, sharpen the strongest twig you can find, and there you have it: thread and a needle. Try it on your own. If you cannot, I will show you. Anything else?”

He wanted to ask how the elders expected them to sleep outside, how they expected them to thrive off of a bowl of pork and blood a day, but he did not. He knew there was no answer, that he must simply adapt and survive if he wanted to be a Spartan, a _man_. “No.” Out of questions, again his hands trembled. He was quiet, and while he did not talk, he heard. He knew what was coming next. It was how this was to work. How it had always worked, as far as he knew. Atreus was expected to do more with him than instruct. He clenched his fists in his lap, trying to hide the tremors. He was not scared. This would not hurt him.

Atreus, observant as any good Spartan should be, took notice. “I will not force you to do anything you do not want to do. Do not worry.”

“I am not worried.” He spat his words and stood in a rush to prove them.

“Spoken like someone who is,” Atreus said as he rose, leading them farther back into the trees. “Do not be strong to impress me. If you do not want this, leave.”

This was expected of him. If not now, eventually. If he was not ready, he would not have asked to become a hearer. “I do not care if I impress you.”

Atreus made an amused noise, and beckoned him to sit on the ground again, which Kratos did without hesitation. “You are very brave.” This was true. He was a leader. Leaders were never afraid. Atreus pulled up both their robes and situated Kratos on his side. The ground was hard and cold. He tried not to let it steal his focus as Atreus pressed up tight against his back, skin unbearably warm. Kratos breathed in deeply as he felt him nudge between his thighs. Atreus fell still once he had slid himself between them, giving him a moment to collect himself. He did not need it, pressing back against him to encourage him to move. He felt Atreus shudder, fingernails sharp at his hip. Slowly, he began to work himself between his closed legs, breath heavy in his ear. “Touch yourself. I am in no place to judge you.”

Neither of them lasted long, their ragged breathing loud in the quiet. Kratos pressed his cheek to the dirt, trying to cool the warmth that had risen in his face. “Are you alright?” Atreus asked him, concern a long since foreign concept. Kratos nodded, too breathless to speak, and Atreus reached down to free himself from the vice of his thighs. “I’ve made a mess of you,” he said, apologetically, and swiped at the wetness he left behind. It did little to clean him, but Kratos oddly appreciated the sentiment. Atreus had shown him more kindness than anyone since he’d been brought here. He had failed to realize how desperately he craved compassion. The thought was one he attempted not to dwell on. He had no room to make a friend. They trained to die. It was best not to get attached.

Atreus rolled away from him, onto his back, still catching his breath. Kratos remained curled on his side and did not move until he was spoken to. “How did you get that scar? Over your eye?”

For a very childish moment, Kratos considered his options. He could lie, overexaggerate, make himself seem far stronger, braver. Finally, he settled on simply telling the truth, figuring there was nothing more noble. “They took my brother. I tried to stop them.”

“You are a fool for it.” Kratos felt his stomach drop, even though admiration marked Atreus’s voice, he did not want him to think him foolish. He had reacted on instinct. Deimos was of great importance to him. Even now, with all he’d learned of combat, he couldn’t picture himself reacting any differently. “Was he ill?”

“I do not know.”

“Did he seem ill?”

“I do not think so.” They had been playing outside. Playing was a loose term for it, brandishing spears at each other in hopes to knock the other down. First one on his back lost. Briefly, he thought of his mother, alone with no daughters to keep her company. No husband. He wondered if she missed him. If she missed Deimos. She used to call them _her brave Spartans_. Kratos shook the memory off like a wet dog. Home was a comfort he thought seldom of. There was no sense in it. He would never go back.

“Did it hurt?”

“I thought it was your place to answer questions, not ask them.” He had somehow forgotten how much Atreus liked to speak. He was kind, and though he meant no harm, it grew tiresome.

“So it _did_ hurt.” Kratos did not entertain him with an answer. It did not seem to phase him, as he continued without one. “Is that why you fight so hard? For him?”

“I fight for myself. For Sparta. He has been gone for years.” It was fact. Deimos’s fate no longer mattered. Kratos had made as much peace as he could with what had happened. The guilt, though, he could never rid himself of. Because of his inability, his brother was likely dead, and there was no undoing it.

“I see,” Atreus said, sounding wise, like he could read deeper and understand the things that Kratos could not. “It does not make you—”

“Enough.” Kratos cut into his sentence, trusting that Atreus was tenderhearted enough not to punish him for interrupting. “How are you still soft?”

As Atreus pondered, Kratos reveled in the quiet. The leaves overhead blocked the stars from view. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, “I would be ashamed of myself if I lost my humanity. I think that is how I have not turned cold as the rest of you have.”

He turned the advice over in his mind a few times. Though it was nonsense, it struck him. Eventually, Atreus stood and offered a hand to help him off the ground. “Do not get used to this, the next time I see you, we train.” Kratos could not help how the corner of his lip twitched. Perhaps his luck had not drawn poorly for an inspirer. Atreus elbowed him squarely in the chest, hard. “Is that a smile I see? There is hope for you yet,” he joked, leading them back to the treeline. “Go. Rest. You will need all that you can get.”

Alone, Kratos returned to his reeds, prepared to wake damp with the morning dew.

He slept little. 

~

Morning came into focus slowly. There were several moments of blissful ignorance before Kratos could piece together where he was. Home, he believed at first. It was cold, as mornings always were. The furs under his fingers soft. Everything smelled deceptively of woodsmoke. His face was tucked comfortably against something warm and firm, a hand smoothing over the skin from his brow, over the top of his head, and down his neck to where his tunic began. Faye. He could not remember why he had slept completely dressed.

 _Faye_. She was gone. The realization sent him upright, pulling away from Atreus as if he had caught fire. The sun speckled the floor, shining through small holes and gaps in the walls. Dust motes floated lazy and undisturbed where the light collected in small pools. Without a word, he moved to clamber over Atreus to get to his boots. It was late. His son must be worried and hungry; Kratos was supposed to find their dinner last night. He would have to do it on the way back, now. Mid-movement, a hand on his forearm stopped him. The contact was mindless and innocent. Atreus knew nothing of his scars. It took much effort not to rip his arm away. “I must go,” was all he could find to say, stilling for a moment to make eye contact, to make it clear that he was serious. However, it seemed their position, with Atreus on his back and Kratos half over the top of him, sent mixed signals. The hand on his forearm migrated slowly to his neck, caressing along the way. “Atreus.” His tone was tender, yet warning. “I said I must go.”

“To do what? You looked so peaceful. I’ve never known you to sleep for so long. Come back, whatever is so urgent can surely wait.”

He did not know of Kratos’s responsibilities. It would stay that way until he deemed him trustworthy. He would trust Atreus with his past before he would trust him with his child. “It cannot. I have matters I must tend to.” He did not give Atreus time to respond, swinging his weight over him and to the edge of the bed, where he sat to pull on his boots. He stood without warning and retrieved his axe. Atreus scrambled out of bed to follow him to the door.

“You are always welcome here,” Atreus reminded him, “whenever you like.” There was a grim quality to his voice. Kratos wondered if he believed this would be the last they would see of each other. It very well could be. He had a child to care for. He did not have the time to take away from him, not yet. They were just beginning to forge a relationship. Kratos would rather lose this than his son. Or at least that was what he liked to believe. He enjoyed being a father now that he permitted himself the role. He did not want to lose anything more due to being… _distracted_ with someone from his past. He had left Greece with the intention of letting everything go. That, unfortunately, included Atreus. He was supposed to be dead. He had left without warning, and Kratos had wasted years of his life mourning for him. Suddenly, he realized his anger at the situation. Naming his emotions was a feat in and of itself, and it was never easy. Steeling himself with a deep breath, he tamped it down. There was no use in feeling neglected after all this time. Atreus had his reasons for leaving him.

The cold bit through Kratos’s clothes anew as he opened the door, the wind greeting him eagerly. Atreus shivered behind him, a sheet from the bed wrapped around his shoulders. Barefoot, he followed him outside. “Come back any time. You know where I am now. I never go far.”

Kratos said nothing. Did nothing. He simply continued forward without so much as a glance back. Atreus had done it to him so many years ago in. He deserved to understand what it felt like. The sick satisfaction he expected never came, even as he crossed the treeline. He had yet to hear the door shut, which meant Atreus was still standing awkwardly in the snow, watching his retreat. Regret filled him for not saying a proper goodbye, for not taking advantage of something he had missed so dearly for so long. For letting temptation get the better of him, to leave his son alone in this weather without a meal.

Anxiety began to breed as he quickened his pace, following his landmarks home. He had considered Atreus being a trap for him, but what if it was not his own safety he should have been so concerned with? He had not considered even for a moment Atreus being home without protection. He was of Giant blood. What the gods were searching for. What Baldur had come to find. Paranoid, he decided it best to abandon any hunt. There was some meat stored in the crawlspace below the house. He liked to save what they could for when the animals thinned even further, but they could spare enough for a late breakfast. If Atreus was missing when he returned, he would have bigger problems than keeping them fed.

Home, while, not being far, took longer than he would have liked to reach. The clouds shrouding the sky hid the sun, making it impossible to tell the time. Kratos guessed it was near midday. Atreus was likely fearing for his father’s safety. These temperatures were dangerous. The carnivorous wildlife far more aggressive. Many things could happen to a man alone in these woods.

When he reached the gate in front of their home, Atreus came bounding from inside the house, the door left ajar behind him. Mimir’s hoarse call rang out into the woods, no longer were there animals to stir at the noise. “Lad! Lad, come back! You weren’t supposed to leave my sight until your father returned!”

“It’s fine, it _is_ Father!”

“Oh, dear.”

Atreus, excited and relieved to see him, was full of questions. “Where were you? Did you get lost?” Kratos, relieved in turn, guided him back to the house by the shoulder. Slowing his pace, Atreus peered around his back, then broke from his grip to trot around to examine his other side with all the fleeting interest of a hummingbird. “I thought you were hunting. Could you not find anything?” Kratos did not answer, reaching for his son again without looking, lost in his internal conflict. His hand clasped gently around the nape of his neck. He had been so willing to let go of this yesterday, all for a man that had left him. Atreus, if he had done anything by escaping Sparta, had betrayed him. Betrayed their people, their state. His people, Kratos reminded himself sharply. He was no longer a Spartan. He did not wish to associate with anything from his past, or _anyone_.

Atreus craned his neck back. If it was to read his expression or prompt answers to his questions, Kratos did not know. “Father?” The wood floor creaked as they crossed into the house, any warmth from the fire leeched by the cold. Kratos did not bother to scold Atreus for not closing the door behind him. He was the one at fault, he had abandoned him upon impulse to lay with another man for the night.

“Oh, it _is_ you! Welcome back, brother.” He met the head’s eyes, then looked away, ashamed. Blessedly, Mimir turned his attention to Atreus, leaving Kratos in peace to shed his weapons. “There, see? I told you he’d turn up!”

There came no response from Atreus, and Kratos nearly tripped over him as he turned away from hanging Leviathan on the wall. “Are you going to answer me? I asked where you were.” Communication between them was improving at a crawl and minor setbacks felt like canyons. Atreus, more bold and comfortable than ever with his father, was growing less afraid to make his displeasure known. Which also meant he tended to be less respectful. Kratos paid it no mind, looking down his nose at him.

“I was lost. The snow filled my tracks.” He pushed past his son, hoping to avoid any further questioning. He was too in his head. He hadn’t taken any notice of Atreus standing behind him until he had turned around. This would not do. “Hungry?” He offered the words as one would a treaty, stooping to pull open the hatch in the floor. He hoped the promise of food would distract Atreus from the poor excuse he had given him. He was much better at concealing things by simply not speaking of them. He pretended not to notice how the light from the table slimmed as Mimir narrowed his eyes.

Atreus followed closely, not yet ready to leave his side. “Oh. I didn’t know you could even get lost.”

“It has been known to happen.” Kratos hopped down into the crawlspace. He examined what little rabbit meat they had, decided on a carcass Atreus had come across a few days ago, and climbed back out. He kicked the door shut. It made his skin itch, being close to his blades again. They had been put away after their return from the mountain, to be used only in the most dire of circumstances. He pushed Atreus’s dream of Thor from his mind.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

A hush stretched between the three of them. Kratos laid the meat out by the fire and waited for it to thaw enough to cut. In the meantime, he found a whetstone to sharpen his knife. His son mimicked him, finding another for his own. Usually, Kratos was fond of their matching weapons, the ones he had crafted with his own two hands. Instead, the sight settled a heavy weight in his gut. Guilt. It was familiar. His thoughts were halted by Atreus speaking up again.

“What are you going to do with the rabbit? Stew?” As he spoke, he peered down the point of his blade. Kratos fought the urge to turn it around in his hands, away from his face.

He grunted. The answer was obvious. It was all they ate. With Faye’s garden burned and the weather, it was lacking; little more than meat and spices in snowmelt. It was warm and filled their bellies regardless.

Atreus’s grin was large enough to be seen from the corner of his eye, pleased with his father’s answer. Rabbit stew was his favorite. Kratos still did not know much of his son, but he was aware of that. It was a peace offering. He figured Atreus understood that much. He had left him in dangerous conditions. More importantly, he had done so after agreeing not to. The first time he had dealt with Baldur, his son had asked, _Never leave me alone again, alright?_ And he had said _alright_. He had not spoken it like a promise, but it had been one. It left him aching to be a man of his word with his son.

With Faye now gone, he returned nightly on the days he hunted alone—wary of Atreus falling ill again, of hungry wolves, of the bitter cold. Though Atreus had grown exponentially during their journey, he was a child. Kratos was solely responsible for his well-being. He had willingly cast that aside. He had slept fitfully, for once, knowing well that his son was waiting up for him. All for a man that had left him. A lover from a life he swore he would never return to. He had fallen back into it so easily. He thought himself better than that.

Atreus of Sparta was not to be trusted, he decided with some shaky sense of finality. If he had left once, then he could do it again. If he earned back enough of Kratos’s trust to meet his namesake, his desertion would surely break his son’s heart. Atreus grew attached to others easily, and Kratos fully expected him to take to the man he was named after. Of course, this was in theory. He was still unsure if Atreus actually existed. Though it was beginning to seem more likely considering how uneventful his visit had been. Atreus’s home had not dissolved into angry gods seeking revenge. He had not murdered Kratos in his sleep. Even still, Odin could be waiting for him to let his guard down. To make himself vulnerable. Not only was he putting himself in danger, but the boy. He would not see Atreus again. It was not worth the risk.

“-ather? _Father_.”

“What?” Again, he had been too in his head. He tested his blade against his palm. It would do.

“I said the rabbit is probably ready.”

Atreus watched him quietly as he stood, sheathing his knife to pull the carcass off the hearth.

“If you wish to help, gather snow.”

Eager to please, Atreus scrambled to his feet. “Yes, sir.” The feeling that settled in his heart was deserved, knowing it was more out of seeking favor than obedience. At the table, he began to butcher. The door slammed as Atreus darted outside. He returned instantly, peeking in to offer a meager apology before pulling it carefully shut. Kratos did not acknowledge him, skinning the rabbit in silence, the head on the table next to him. He could feel his eyes and refused to address it. Several seconds passed before Mimir relented and made a noise as if he was clearing his throat. If Kratos had seen less in his years, he might have found himself curious as to how. Instead, he felt annoyance, as well as apprehension. He was not a fan of questions.

It was appreciated that Mimir kept his voice low. “I know you've already explained yourself, and I understand if you're shielding the boy, but I’d appreciate some honesty.” The prompt went unrecognized as Kratos peeled away the rabbit’s hide. He would save it. Tan it with brains later. The head tried again. They did not have long before Atreus returned. “You weren't lost, were you?” Yet again, Kratos did not react. Atreus would be back soon, he would be expected to explain himself in front of him. “Brother?”

Finally, Kratos lifted his eyes, albeit begrudgingly. There was no sense in lying, Mimir had seen through the first one. “I was not lost.” He returned to his task. He had forfeited enough information.

“Are you really not going to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Tell who what happened?” Atreus stood in the doorway, hugging the large pot he had packed with snow. He shut the door with his foot, attention divided between his father and Mimir.

“Ah,” the head fumbled to begin, eyeing Kratos nervously. This was obviously knowledge not to be shared with the boy, but he was smart for being so young and would not fall for every lie they fed him. “Your da’ was just, ah—”

“Nothing.” Kratos cut in, running his knife along the rabbit’s belly to expose its entrails. “The head does not believe that I was lost.”

“I don’t either,” Atreus admitted as he walked past them to set the pot over the fire. “But I don’t think Father would want to leave me with it being so cold. I mean, for longer than he has to. Right, Father?”

It took a moment for him to formulate a response. “Correct.” Kratos did not understand. He did not hesitate. It was not in his nature. Atreus had phrased his question in a way that would make it impossible to tell a lie. He never wanted to leave his side for longer than was strictly necessary. If he was _willing_ to was another question entirely.

Seeming to be sated, Atreus came to settle with them at the table. After several moments he started again with “So, Mimir” and Kratos could tell by his tone alone that he was going to ask for a story. Mimir, if anything, entertained his son in a way Kratos had believed only Faye could. His son could sit for hours listening and asking questions. It was something familiar, and he found himself tuning it out, as he always did, as Mimir launched into a story he had told Atreus at least a score over. Focusing his attention on getting them fed, Kratos fought with his wandering mind. He was done thinking about Atreus and his the creases of his skin, of how his graying hair caught the firelight. He was done thinking about how he’d let himself be enchanted for a night over a man that might as well be a stranger. He was not going to make the same mistake twice. He was trained to be disciplined. He could fight temptation in order to protect what little he still had.

The rest of the day passed in a monotonous haze. Since he had come home so late, there were only a few hours of light left. Not enough daylight to hunt, The weather allowed them to enjoy little else. He had burned what remains they could not repurpose of the rabbit in the fire, unwilling to simply discard them outside, lest he wanted to attract other, less-friendly animals. Atreus passed the time chatting with Mimir. When the meat had cooked through, Kratos put end to a tale he had been rather enamored with, soliciting his help with the spices.

They ate listening to the house groan against the wind. The fire warmed the room some, but never quite enough to knock the chill out of the air. Kratos had plugged every draft he could find, but it was simply too cold. He had a feeling it would only get worse as the winter drew on, but refused to let it be a source of worry. Between Atreus’s health, their dwindling food, and his current dilemma with his past, he had more than enough to occupy his mind. They were getting by for now. That was what mattered.

Darkness fell quickly in winter, their home lit only by the fire burning in the pit. The temperatures plummeted without the sun, the harsh gusting of the wind chasing away any lingering warmth it had left. If they wanted to find any rest, they had to bed down soon after dusk, before it became too cold for Atreus to fall asleep on his own. It was a lesson to be learned after Kratos had spent a few nights with him sneaking into his bed, tucked close for warmth. While he did what he had to for his son, he did not enjoy being kicked awake.

“Atreus.”

The boy sat cross-legged on his bed, boots strewn on the floor. Kratos nudged them out of the way before one of them tripped in the night. Atreus did not answer immediately, busy finishing one of the many sketches he had been working on since earlier in the afternoon. Kratos stepped closer to see what it was he had been working on. Deer and wolves littered one of the back pages in his journal. He never failed to be impressed by the amount of detail he could put into them. Did Faye teach him how to draw? He had never thought to ask before now. He had not even known that Atreus could until after her passing. It was best not to dwell on how absent he had been. Atreus quickly finished shading in the fur on a wolf that was prowling down the side of the binding and looked up. “Already? The sun _just_ set.”

“Already.” Neither of them had adjusted completely to their new sleeping schedule. The winter was fabled to last three. There would be plenty of time. “To bed.”

Atreus complied with minimal complaint, Kratos listened idly to the rustling of his bedding as he fed the fire. Turning back around, he noticed the cover of Atreus’s journal peeking out from underneath his pillow, worn from their journey. He said nothing of it, trusting Atreus wouldn’t be tempted to stay up. “Goodnight, Mimir. Goodnight, Father.” His voice was muffled by the furs he had pulled up to his nose.

“Rest well, laddy.”

Kratos did not answer, settling silently into his own bed.

Rest could not find him, for he was fixated on how he stumbled through the day, still reeling from the shock of finding Atreus. Reeling from how _real_ he had felt. Logically his existence was impossible. Perhaps he had used the cover of battle to escape, but how had a thousand freshly trained Spartans not been observant enough to notice one of their own fleeing? How had he lived so close all this time and gone unnoticed? Kratos had spent a decade wandering these woods, to think they had never crossed paths was absurd. It was enough to prove him false. It had to be. He yearned to know the truth of what became of Atreus. There was no body. It was a fact that pervaded through all of this. There was no actual proof that Atreus had been killed in battle. Kratos had searched long enough to know that for sure. Even those that had been hacked beyond recognition, he had been positive they were not him. Perhaps one of them had been. Perhaps he had missed one. Regardless, he had long ago accepted Atreus’s death. Out of all his options, it was the most believable.

The Atreus he had encountered had not been real. If Hel could conjure his father, then surely some similar power existed in Midgard. With magic, anything was possible. It had been a trap, set if not by Odin, by someone. It had been an induced hallucination and nothing more.

With his decision made, Kratos took peace in it. Atreus was long dead and gods were cruel. Never had he questioned Atreus’s existence until now. He did not intend to continue. It was childish and held no value.

It was needless to lose rest. In order to lull himself, he focused on his surroundings: the eerie whistle of the wind, the crackle of the fire, the smell of woodsmoke, the cold of the quilts against his skin. Atreus sighed, the sound breaking Kratos’s concentration. Wordlessly, he listened as he struggled to settle in for the night. The cold made it difficult, and, not for the first time, he weighed the idea of heating rocks over the fire to place in their bedding at night. Soon, he knew the weather would force him to resort to it, though he feared Atreus getting burned.

“Father,” his son whispered from his bed, “are you awake?” Kratos was not the only one struggling to find sleep.

“What is it?” He raised himself up on his elbow, seeing Atreus had done the same. He looked pale in the low light, the fire casting shadows in his scars. There was a brief moment where he prepared himself for Atreus to announce himself ill. That was, fortunately, not the case.

“Can you tell me a story?” He sounded nervous. Asking for a such a thing before bed was a gamble, Kratos eternally stuck between believing him deserving while also outgrowing the need for them.

Tonight, his answer was easy.

“Very well.” There was a moment where he did not immediately begin, wracking his brain for a story he had not already told. It had been a long time. He could not remember them all, and those that he did he omitted many of the already sparse details that he could not remember. Finally, he settled on one, Atreus laying back down on his pillow as he began. “There was a porcupine who was seeking a place to live. He found a cave and when he entered, he came upon a family of snakes and found it to be their home. He asked if they could share, and the snakes were kind and allowed him to stay with them. Soon, the snakes began to regret their decision, as his quills were sharp and the cave narrow. When asked to leave, the porcupine told them he would not. The snakes left, in the end, since it was _they_ who were unsatisfied.”

As always, Atreus had comments. “Can he do that? Just ask them to leave? It was their house!”

“It was his house, as well. The snakes agreed to let him stay.”

“It was their house _originally_. Doesn’t that matter?”

“No.”

Atreus grumbled to himself, sure he was sound in logic. His eyes roamed the rafters as he tried to come up with a retort. “That wasn’t much of a story,” he said after a few moments, “it would have been a story if the snakes ate him.”

“If they could not stand the touch of his quills, how would they manage to get him in their mouths?”

Growing frustrated, Atreus groaned, hands emerging from his furs to cover his face. This was the opposite of what a story was supposed to do. Kratos was supposed to be helping him sleep, not winding him up. Regardless, it was a distraction and he welcomed it. “Well, what if they ate him head-first so his quills would be smoothed down? Then they wouldn’t poke them. Would that work?”

“Unlikely.” Amusement had taken up residence in his voice. He was sure it only served to annoy his son further. Before Atreus could say anything else, he spoke again, “This is no longer a debate. You should rest.”

Reluctantly, Atreus responded with “Yes, sir,” marking the end of their conversation. He fell quiet and still after several more minutes of tossing and turning. Kratos returned to facing the wall. He was alone with his thoughts and rattle of the wind.

No matter how he tried to prevent it, he thought of Atreus of Sparta. How many times had he laid in this very bed drawing upon his memories for strength? How often had he whispered of him to Faye in the night? He considered his options. If Atreus was created by the Gods as a trick, then his greed would land him and his son into trouble he wanted no part of. Regardless, god's blood was on both of their hands. Eventually, they would have to fight again. The boy had dreamt so, and if his mother’s mural in Jötenhiem was anything to go by, his dreams were not to be taken lightly. Regardless of Atreus of Sparta being legitimate or not, they would still have to take responsibility for their actions. It was simply a matter of when.

It was careless, he knew, to be so willing to place his family into harm’s way. Unspeakably selfish. Atreus was dead. He knew this. The memories that plagued his mind made it difficult. The sound of Atreus’s laughter, even when imagined, had his insides fluttering in a way that made him deeply ashamed. He could not trust this man, yet he pined for him. Atreus was more than willing to take him back. Superficially, it was perfect. It was what they had yearned for. Scrupulously, the facts did not line up. It was too convenient to find him after Faye’s passing. Though there was a part of him that wanted to cling onto any hope that Atreus had survived, he knew it unwise. He had chosen his path.

Several times over, Kratos tried to clear his mind. Each time proved to be a failure. For years he had thought of Atreus to lull him to sleep. It was strange for the very subject to keep him up. He rose to place more wood on the fire, pausing on the short walk back to bed to observe his son. He slept deeply, face barely visible through the quilts and the furs. He had fought to pass on his name to him. Faye had been adamant on Loki, but when he blessed her with a child fit to brandish it, she had let him win. He had never put much thought into why. Was it possible she had foreseen this? She must have. She had witnessed everything else.

He pulled on his boots and made to leave.

A dim golden light stopped him. From the table, the head tracked his movement. Kratos stilled at the door, Leviathan heavy against his back. He held his gaze for several seconds, breaking eye contact only to step outside. He would return in a few hours, before sunrise. The fire should last. His son would suspect nothing of his absence.

The moon was climbing high upon his arrival at Atreus’s home. Through the darkness, it appeared unchanged. No evidence that it was some wavering hallucination. The wind whipped cruelly at his skin, but he ignored it. It was vital to make certain of Atreus’s authenticity. After the moon had climbed two hand widths higher, it seemed he was wasting his time. He was simply watching a man’s house. Odin had not descended from the clouds themselves to sit and point at him, celebrate that he had exacted his trickery. The longer he stood, the more he was beginning to believe there was nothing here to find. Though he had reasons to be skeptical, he also had reasons to not be.

The front door cracked open, the warm light that spilled across the frozen ground pulling him from his thoughts. Atreus stepped out, a fur from his bed draped across his shoulders. He hummed to himself, barely audible over the rush of the wind. Kratos stood rooted in place, knowing the slightest movement would draw attention. Atreus did not appear to be dressed to stay out for long, quickly gathering firewood from his stores. At the sight of him so domestic, a sudden sense of fondness washed over Kratos. As it had in the woods, all sense left him. If this was fabricated by the gods, then they had strived for detail.

Atreus startled, his armful of wood littering the snow. Shamefully, Kratos did not move, even as Atreus’s trudged toward him through the snow. His expression softened, albeit marginally.

“By the gods, have you forgotten what a front door is? Knock if you wish to visit, do not stand here in the snow waiting for me to come and find you. You are a grown man, Kratos, not a stray dog.” Kratos held his tongue. There was nothing to say that would not warrant more of an explanation than he was willing to give. Atreus sighed, playing put-upon, and took his hands. “You’re freezing. How long have you been standing here?” His lips pressed thin with worry. This felt no different than getting scolded as a child. Atreus spoke again, suddenly, as if he was butting into a conversation they were not having. “I changed my mind—I don’t want to know. You’ve been standing there long enough for me to worry. Come inside, _please_. Warm up.” He stepped toward the house, feeling the tug of resistance as Kratos did not immediately move to follow. “That was not a suggestion. Come. Now.”

Leaving his son alone for another night had not been in his plans. Resisting would only raise more questions. Seeing no other option, he let himself be guided to the house. At the woodpile, Atreus let go of his hand. Kratos took notice of a hatchet buried in one of the logs. A meager weapon if Atreus turned on him. “Go in. If you weren’t half frozen, I’d make you pick all this up.”

Kratos saw himself inside, the heat of the fire blistering on his skin as he pulled the door shut behind him. He stood at the hearth, trying to stay alert and out of his head. Atreus entered moments later, wood cradled in his arms. Kratos stepped aside so he could place a few logs on the fire. The rest he piled against the wall by his dory. It appeared to be untouched since the previous day. Kratos wondered how much food he had stored. “Take off your boots. I will be extremely impressed if you still have all your toes come morning.” Without question, Kratos took a seat at the table, doing as he was told. Atreus came close to sit on the table beside him. He did not seem bothered by the way the legs tottered under his weight. He propped his feet in the stool immediately to Kratos’s left. Kratos, unwinding the laces of his boots, did not look up until Atreus began to laugh. Even as they made eye contact, Atreus did not explain what he found to be so funny.

“Why do you laugh?”

“You were always such a strange one. I hoped you would grow out of it and I see you have not—standing in the woods _waiting_ for an invitation to come inside. I told you last I saw you that you were always welcome here.”

“I know what you spoke. I was not waiting for an invitation.”

“You were hunting this late, then? For what? Owls, I presume?” Again, he laughed, acting as if three years of age made him incredibly more wise and intelligent. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyeing him. “You must learn to mix your paint better.”

It took longer than it should have for Kratos to realize what he meant. “What?”

“Your paint.” Atreus waggled a finger at himself in gesture. “I didn’t want to tell you before, but it is more gray than white. Your tattoo does not help. You are as visible as an evening star against the snow.”

There was a very telling moment where Kratos did not respond. He had known this was coming, and yet he was not prepared to deflect such a statement. At least Atreus had come up with an excuse for him. He grunted to acknowledge he’d been spoken to, and changed the subject. He spoke so seldom now that he counted on Atreus being far more interested in whatever he had to say. “Why did you not tell me you planned to run?”

Atreus made a knowing noise as if he had foreseen the question. “I believe you already know the answer. I wanted a different life—”

“So did I.” The hurt in his voice was apparent and, inwardly, he recoiled from it. Kratos had never been gifted in the art of processing his emotions. He was good at predicting scenarios, then dealing with them accordingly. Atreus being alive was something he could have never imagined. Atreus abandoning him in any sense was, frankly, unbelievable. He could not wrap his mind around the fact. They had been so _happy_.

“Let me finish,” Atreus said, swatting him on the shoulder. “All these years without me and you’ve forgotten all your manners.” Kratos could not tell if he was being serious or not. Regardless, he kept his mouth shut. “You had everything. You had a wife, Kratos. A _pregnant_ wife. You were a captain. That did not leave room for me.”

“I married because it was expected of me. Nothing more.”

“You say this as if you did not love her. I know you did. I saw it when you spoke of her.”

Kratos felt his anger slipping from his control. “You say this as if I did not care for you.” For once it was Atreus who was silent. “Our marriage was not perfect. She did not approve of my tactics.”

“Are you telling me she was a Spartan woman who did not care for violence? She gave you a warrior, did she not?”

The topic of children was one Kratos was not yet ready to touch. He acted as if he heard nothing. “She believed I fought to bring glory to myself, not to Sparta.” She had been correct; Lysandra had been able to read him almost as well as Atreus could. Neither of them spoke or looked at one another. Kratos entertained the idea of getting up to leave. Instead, he changed the subject again. Atreus’s jealousy was something he would have to work through on his own. “I searched the bodies.” He had also worried extensively for the state of Atreus’s soul, but he did not voice it. It was needless to guilt him. _How did you survive,_ he wanted to ask, _what did I do to deserve this?_

Atreus’s face crumpled in pity. “I am not surprised you did. My decision may have been unwise, but it brought us right where we wanted to be in the end, did it not?” Showing no hesitance, he reached out to cup Kratos’s jaw. “Perhaps it is that we need to focus on. I have the sense that we both have done things we are not proud of.”

Kratos huffed. That was a massive understatement. He pulled away from Atreus’s hand. “Perhaps.” Against his better judgment, he was feeling more relaxed. Atreus was exactly how he remembered him. Feeling secure enough to remove Leviathan from his back, he laid it across the table, where Atreus took the gesture as an invitation to study the detail along the grip. Kratos, without thinking, plucked it from his hands as he lifted it carefully into his lap.

Atreus erupted with laughter, reaching for it again. “You act as if I am strong enough to hurt anyone other than myself wielding that. Give it to me, I only want to look at it.” For a few moments, Kratos held it out of his reach. He thought of the hatchet outside and handed it back.

Atreus studied it quietly, turning it in his hands. It was a long time before he spoke again. “I assumed you would not want to endanger your wife and child by leaving with them, but you always did surprise me. Did Lysandra make this?”

It was a name Kratos had not heard in a long time, the memories it brought were painful. He pried his hand from his forearm, suddenly aware that he had been rubbing the bandages. “No. They were never here. It was crafted by dwarves.”

“You have met dwarves?” Atreus seemed astounded, smile stretching lopsided across his lips. “I am lucky if I walk a mile and see a squirrel! I’m so proud of you—meeting _dwarves_.”

Kratos said nothing, watching the fire glint off his blade. He had forgotten how easily Atreus was impressed by him. He had thought nothing of meeting other creatures. Life in this land was scarce yet diverse. He would not be surprised if Atreus had his fair share of encounters. Above him, Atreus’s chuckles petered to a halt. He placed the axe off to the side, within Kratos’s reach.

“I was right, then? In the woods I assumed you married another woman? Or a—a man?”

“No. I was married to another woman.”

“I am sorry you lost her.”

The apology was just as genuine as it had been before. After his obvious resentment toward Lysandra, Kratos found himself confused and sought clarity. “You are not angry?”

“No, I have no right to be. If I were, I’d be quite the hypocrite.”

Atreus had clarified nothing, leaving Kratos in his growing bewilderment. Atreus had been inclusive in their relationship. Something of which Kratos had never minded until he grew old enough to marry. It had upset him greatly for Kratos to chose a woman over him. The state expected them to produce children, the short time between his marriage and Atreus’s disappearance had been spent waiting for him to give in to the same societal pressure he had. Atreus had chosen to run instead, it was hard to imagine him harboring feelings of any romantic nature toward anyone else. Though he obviously lived alone, he loved purely and with his heart. He deserved to have someone to call his own. Maybe he had? It tugged at Kratos’s chest to imagine him settling down with a woman and losing her. Perhaps between them Kratos was not the only one who had experienced great loss.

“On more than one occasion,” Atreus expanded, “I’ve sought the company of other men.” His words dripped with shame. “Never out of love. I was simply lonely.”

Within the brief moment that Kratos did not yet respond, he found himself conflicted. He was not sure why such an answer had taken him by surprise. Atreus had been adamant of not marrying a woman for a reason. “And I was married twice. It is nothing.” The loosening of Atreus’s posture was visible. People were few and far between, how Atreus had found one man to lay with him in these wilds was surprising enough, not to mention multiple. He walled off any emotions the knowledge would have brought. He had no right to feel anything but simple acceptance. They had chosen to walk different paths. He had committed himself to building a family. There was a distinct coil of disappointment, however, that Atreus had not found someone to love. It was a shame, that such a good man spent the majority of his life alone depending on strangers for comfort. Kratos had depended on that, too, long ago, years wasted at sea with women and wine. There was no sense to question his decisions now, but he wondered what would have become of himself if he had left then, before everything could get impossibly worse.

“Have you not?” The words roused him out of his head and he spared Atreus a glance. It took him a few sluggish moments to piece them together and realize Atreus had asked him a question.

“Have I not what?”

“Have you not been with another man?”

Kratos sat back, making eye contact. He was telling the truth. There was nothing for him to hide, not about this. “No. I have not.” Atreus was on him within the moment, quick enough that Kratos could scarcely recall his desperate scramble into his lap. To his surprise, the stool held their weight, teetering on its legs as Atreus threw his arms around his neck and crushed their lips together. Initially, he did not react, unsure of what would be appropriate. He was grieving. Had a child left to himself in the fabled end times, yet here he was.

He might as well enjoy himself.

The same shift of lean muscle and bone met his palms as he smoothed his hands up either side of Atreus’s spine. Atreus pulled away, a loose smile adorning his lips as he shed the pelt from his shoulders. It pooled around Kratos’s ankles on the floor. Immediately, he leaned back in, a hand on the back of Kratos’s head to encourage him forward, the other firm around the back of his neck, grounding him. In his haste, their noses bumped, and Atreus snorted in amusement against his lips. He took Kratos by the chin, forcing him to tilt his head. It made him feel inexperienced, a fumbling teenager all over again. In an effort to redeem himself, he nipped across the line of Atreus’s jaw and down his neck. Atreus sighed, appreciative, and dropped his head back, hands trailing playfully down his arms. Kratos hesitated as his fingers skimmed over the bandages. Atreus did not try to undo them, for which he was unspeakably grateful, his hands simply wandering back upwards to flatten against his chest, thumbs stroking the thick fur of his garment. He could not let this go much further, his clothes hiding scars he was not ready to explain. Before his pause became exaggerated enough for Atreus to notice, he resumed, teeth scraping gently down to the collar of his tunic, where he began to retrace his steps, kisses soothing the angry red that marred his skin. Atreus’s hands meandered down to his stomach, tugging his tunic free from his trousers, fingers slipping inside to feel his skin. Kratos pulled away, trying to remain calm.

“That is enough.”

“Were you not enjoying yourself as I was? It has been far too long; you must not toy with me like this, Kratos.” His voice, though breathless as it was, carried a light note. He did not realize the gravity of this, nor did Kratos expect him to.

“I said that is enough, Atreus.”

Stiffening, Atreus took his hands away. He let them hang in the air between them before slowly settling them on his shoulders. “I do not know what I did to upset you.”

Though it was obvious he was seeking an explanation, Kratos did not give him one. “You did nothing. I am tired. Nothing more.”

Atreus rose from his lap, lingering for a moment as if he wanted to say something. He thought better of it and turned to tend the fire instead. Neither of them spoke for a long while, the only sound the comforting crackle of the logs and the harsh whip of the wind. Cautiously, as if he feared spooking Kratos like a stallion, he approached the table again. “If you are tired, then come to bed. It is late.” His expression somehow slid from wary to wry with a grace Kratos could never wrap his mind around. He extended a hand, which after some consideration, Kratos took to help himself up. Atreus twined their fingers and lead him toward the bed. “I was sure you were going to leave. It is nice to see that you have not.”

“I must go in the morning.” It would only be a few more hours. He also needed Atreus to know this now so he would not question it later. It was unlikely that he would sleep at all, between his need to return home and the residual fear that this was a cruel illusion.

“I have no doubt that you do. You were always such a busy man.”

“I was hardly a man last you saw me.” Atreus untangled their fingers to prod him into bed, again, Kratos did not undress. His was well aware of the distance between himself and his axe, laying on the table across the room. He itched to recall it, but doing so would only result in undue damages. He could fight well enough without it, recall it in an instant if he were to need it. A nagging part of him knew he would not. He would never. Atreus would never hurt him.

“Mm, true. But you thought you were.” Atreus cupped his cheek after he had settled against the mattress, scratching his beard lovingly. With that, he left to retrieve the pelt from the floor, where it had been lost during their brief romp. He spread it out across the bed with the same gentle care Kratos had seen Faye harbor towards their son. It warmed his heart in ways he could not bring himself to acknowledge. Getting attached now could very well be dangerous. It was difficult, however, not to fall back into old habits. He had loved Atreus beyond all reason, as blind and as loyal as any Spartan. After Faye, he had been certain he would never know the feeling again.

He turned over as Atreus crawled under the furs next to him. He draped an arm around Kratos, skin warm from his time spent at the fire. Atreus settled in behind him and pulling him back against his chest. Kratos felt the tension begin to drain from him, which did not go unnoticed, Atreus kneading the muscles of his chest with a pleased noise. “I was not so sure you would ever return to me.” Kratos had not been, either. Even now, after all his reasoning, he was still not. “I am glad you chose to. I do not think I could take knowing you were so close. Or that you were alone.”

Under the covers, Kratos found Atreus’s hand, taking it gently. In return, Atreus pressed his lips to the back of his neck. He waited patiently, expecting Kratos to reply to him, before giving up, propping himself up on an elbow to gaze down at him. His expression was inconceivably soft, his ever-present smile tugging the corners of his lips. It was something Kratos knew he did not deserve. “I suppose you are done talking for now. And to think you used to be the one keeping me up at night.” Finally, he had said something Kratos could not ignore. He laughed once, weakly, and the sound made Atreus beam.

“I believe it was you who was always waking me to drag me into the woods.”

“And I believe it was you who went willingly.”

“Hm.” It was the truth, even out of a dead sleep, Kratos would go anywhere Atreus lead him. Private moments were something that had to be stolen while the others slept.

Chuckling, Atreus bent to kiss his brow. “Rest, my love.”

He would not, but it was useless to make Atreus aware of it. In search of something to keep him alert, he stroked the back Atreus’s palm with his thumb. Comfort bled his mind blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr!](https://krap-tos.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

Kratos woke to the smell of woodsmoke and a face against his neck. Atreus. He slept next to him, an arm wrapped loosely over his chest. His hair was ticklish. Kratos smoothed it away, careful not to snag the curls on his fingers. He had not intended to fall asleep and though he had, he felt more exhausted than last night. His eyes were heavy, begging to be closed again. Fortunately, it had not appeared that he had overslept, the light still dim. He sat up slowly, easing out from under Atreus’s arm. Despite his efforts, Atreus groaned unhappily, reaching blindly for him as he turned his face into the furs, away from the cold. Kratos caught his wrist and pushed it away. “I must go. It is morning.”

“It is hardly morning, you savage.” Again, he reached for him, and again, Kratos pushed him away.

“It is almost as if you insist on being cruel.”

Atreus chuckled sleepily and did not move as Kratos threw his weight to swing himself over him and off of the bed. He did not realize until he had laced his boots and reclaimed his axe that Atreus had turned over to watch him go. His hair a mess, eyes lidded, an imprint across his cheek where he had been laying against Kratos’s tunic. Stilling at the door, Kratos wished for nothing more than to go and kiss him, to try and find words that could somehow convey how beautiful he found him. Instead, Atreus wagged his fingers in a lazy wave, barely lifting his hand from the mattress. “Go on,” he said.

The morning welcomed him with a fresh layer of snow and frigid temperatures. It was not snowing yet, which he took to be a good omen. If the wind remained calm and the sun warmed the air, then he could hunt and bring his son along. It would do him well to get outside and keep his skills sharp.

By the time he reached home, the light had brightened from the dusky blue of early dawn. It would not seem out of place to rouse his son now if he found him sleeping. He wished dearly he would, knowing he could not simply excuse his disappearance for a second time. He opened the door slowly. The head rested quietly on the table where he had been left last night, eyes closed. Kratos was not sure if he slept or had any capability of doing so. Nightly, he at least pretended to rest for their comfort. Atreus was, he presumed, what comprised the majority of the lump in his bed, drowning under the layers of quilts and furs. The fire had burned down to embers, glowing hot in the pit. In the resulting chill that had invited itself in, his son had pulled his bedding up over his head. Kratos hung his axe and rekindled the fire noiselessly. He was putting off waking Atreus, he knew. He had a sinking dread he would be faced with questions of where he had been for the second night in a row. But it was not an option to let it control him. He could not let Atreus sleep all day.

He laid a hand over what he thought to be the boy’s shoulder, shaking him awake. “Atreus.” In response, his son merely groaned and tried to shuffle away from him. If he had been aware of his father’s absence, he would have stayed up, worried. That did not seem the case. It was a minor relief. “Boy.” Atreus did not budge. Kratos began the delicate dissection of pulling back each layer of his bedding, hunting for the edges where the fire could not cast adequate light. Once he had unearthed Atreus’s face, he jerked his chin in gesture. “Up.” He waited as Atreus squinted against the light of the fire and he brought his hands up to scrub at his eyes. “I will not tell you again.” He had not slept well the night before, Kratos knew, but there was no excuse with the days being so short.

Heeding his father’s warning, Atreus dragged himself out of bed and into a thicker tunic. Trusting him not to fall asleep again, Kratos left him to get Mimir. He plucked him from the table as one would a berry from a bush. The sudden movement startled a yelp from him, which Kratos ignored as he fashioned him to the back of his belt.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” he said, disgruntled by his rude awakening.

Kratos did not respond, rummaging for what little dried meat they had. He came up with some deer and handed Atreus a strip once he wandered within reach. “Eat. You will need your strength.”

His words had an immediate effect, perking Atreus up. “Need my strength? Do I get to come with you?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” It had been several days since he last allowed it, and Atreus was itching to leave the house. Without further questions, the boy gathered his bow and quiver, holding his piece of jerky between his teeth. Kratos waited patiently for him at the door.

The snow was deep, leaving his son to trudge through it. He grew tired and lagged behind, stepping in Kratos’s footprints to alleviate his trouble. Once they were into the woods, it became easier to navigate, the canopy of evergreens taking the brunt of the weather and leaving the ground somewhat clear. The cold bit at their skin, the wind was calm. Still, Atreus hugged himself, shivering. Kratos had the mind to tell him to return home. He did not. He would have to cast his fears of Atreus’s sickness aside. They had three summers of this, and he could not leave Atreus at home for every day of it.

“So… did you bring me so you wouldn’t get lost again?”

It was not beyond either of them that Atreus had an excellent sense of direction, forged by wandering the woods his entire life. Kratos had tested it often over the course of their journey, letting him lead the way, asking for directions. It was reasonable he believed his father directionally challenged. “No. I know my way back.”

“Then how come you got lost yesterday?” Atreus’s breath clouded his face. “How far did you go from the house?”

Kratos did not answer. He could practically feel the gears turning in Mimir’s mind, curiously trying to piece together the puzzle of where he had been. The woods were silent. They had yet to see the first sign of life. Though it was unnerving at best, Kratos thought little of it. It was beyond his power. If they kept walking for long enough, they would surely find something. Atreus left his side to wander ahead, taking a westward turn. “Atreus, to me.”

Atreus stopped but did not return. “What if there’s a deer this way?”

“And what if there is not? We do not know. Come.” Without further dispute, Atreus followed his father's command without question. They continued on.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Atreus said after a few minutes, falling in step with his father.

“And what’s that, little brother?”

“Now is not the time for stories.” It was a rule. Stories were for the boat. They needed to be alert and quiet if they were to take home a meal.

“Oh, it’s not about a story. I was actually talking to Father.”

“Then what do you not understand?”

“That we’ve gone to all these different realms and you’ve never gotten lost in them. Our woods don’t look _that_ different with all the snow. It snowed all the time before, anyway.” Kratos did not like where this conversation was going. “And your tracks are so deep, it’d have to snow a lot to fill them in.”

“I…” Any excuse he had left him. There was not one. Atreus looked to him expectantly, waiting for an answer he did not have.

The head, for whatever reason, decided to speak up. “Think about it, lad! Could _you_ find your way home in the dark? I’ve heard you tripping over things in your _own house_ in the night! Your da’ was out in the woods. The more I think about it, the more it's perfectly understandable for even a man of his caliber to get lost.”

Atreus screwed up his face in thought. “I guess. The sun goes down so early now. And with the clouds, there’s no moon or stars to light the way. Did you lose your prints once you ran out of light?”

Kratos, bewildered by Mimir’s sudden kindness, agreed. “The snow did not help, either.” Now that it was presented to him. The excuse was obvious. Why hadn’t he come up with that to begin with? He was unsure of how to show his appreciation to the head, so he did not. He was the smartest man alive. It was likely he knew without being told.

“Well, speaking of getting lost, this reminds me of how Odin lost his eye. The big bastard—”

“Mimir,” Atreus interrupted, words caught between exasperation and a laugh, “you’ve already told this story.”

“Have I?” He had. Kratos remembered him telling it in the boat during the course of their journey. It was a cover he did nothing to earn. Regardless, it would be suspicious of him to allow a story while they were on foot.

“That is enough. Be quiet.”

“Sorry, brother. My tongue got away from me, I suppose. There are times I forget you two still have to eat.”

“Do we really have to, though? I get hungry, but… we’re gods. Do gods have to eat?”

“I suggest you be quiet or we will be finding out _._ ”

Atreus hung his head, a vow to silence. “Yes, sir.”

They trudged on, the world devoid of sound other than the rubbery crunch of snow underfoot. The weather remained decent, the wind still and the snowfall light. Unbeknownst to his son and the head, Kratos fought a battle against his mind for focus, everything around him dredged up thoughts of Atreus of Sparta. Memories. It was a fight one he was losing. Atreus had felt so _real._ Had sounded real. It had crawled under his skin last night and into his head, the idea that he _was_ real. That it was, perhaps, not so far fetched, after all.

He was caught in the midst of a struggle, unsure if he wished to leave Atreus be. Doing so would mean to avoid him and to know nothing more of him. Could he really live out the rest of his days like that? A man he had spent decades revering returned to him, and he would opt to leave? No longer had he evidence that Atreus was created by Odin, seeking his revenge. Kratos had spent two nights asleep in his arms and nothing had come of it, nor leaving his son unguarded at home. Surely the gods were not so trusting of him to fall into such a trap. Kratos had sat through many stories of Odin. Though he did not always pay them much mind, patience did not seem to be a quality he possessed. He would have sprung upon the first opportunity he had to get what he wanted.  Beyond that, the details had been too exact for the gods to have fabricated, unless they had caused him to hallucinate. If Atreus had been born out of his own memories, surely something would have been off. A detail missing, similar to how the environment did not always add up in a dream. He would have known, if not while with him, then after. As much time as he had spent looking back on their visits, he would have surely taken account of anything had been off between them.

The more thorough thought he gave, the more acceptable it seemed to let Atreus be part of his life again. He dreaded telling him the things he had done, but knew he deserved to know. He deserved to decide for himself if he wanted this. Perhaps Kratos had finally committed acts worth fearing. If Atreus chose to stay, his son would be thrilled to have the opportunity to befriend him. Giving him up now would not only be losing a man he had spent a lifetime dreaming of but robbing his son of a good influence, as well.

This was not out of just his selfishness, it was also for his son. Introducing them was something he could not help but look forward to. Atreus was lonely, he knew. He did not complain of it but it was not hard to tell. Kratos saw it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he gazed longingly at the dusty stack of books Faye used to read to him. Company would be good for him. For _both_ of them. Mimir did well at keeping the boy entertained, he was an entity to show compassion and concern where Kratos fell short. But, alas, the head could not nurture, he could not offer physical affection the way Faye had, the way Kratos never could. The way he had been scared to do. Kratos had always known Atreus would make a wonderful parent, even as a child he had been more than happy to assume the role. He had been loving yet stern, wise and patient beyond his years. His anger rare and in his control, something Kratos struggled to emulate and something he desperately wished to pass onto his son.  

Movement pulled him free of his head, the world coming into focus at once. Atreus had strayed from his father and stooped down. He parted from their path to see what it was that had caught his son’s attention. The cold had seeped through his clothes, his skin frigid and tight. Every inhale bit at his throat, long since dry. His son could not be faring any better, and from the way his fingers shook as he traced a set of prints in the snow, he was not. After they tracked this, it was best that they return home. The weather, while marginally better, was still uninhabitable.

“What did you find?”

“Badger.”

He crouched to examine them. Five jointed toes. “Hm.” He pressed the pads of his fingers into the snow for comparison. Atreus, quick to catch on, leaned in to study them side by side.

“They’re fresh!” he said, then stood slowly, looking about like the animal could be mere feet from them.

Kratos nodded to the trail it had left in its wake. “Then you best be on your way.”

Atreus, impatient as always, kicked up to a run. The snow slowed him, though he compensated with enthusiasm. Kratos followed behind with sigh. He caught up easily. “Boy, what are we doing?”

Atreus, still moving, turned back to look at him, puzzled. Kratos watched carefully in case he tripped. “Um…”

“It is not a trick question.”

“Hunting?”

“Yes. And what are _you_ doing?”

Suddenly, it clicked. Atreus slowed to a stop, head dipping toward his chest. “Chasing it.”

Kratos chuckled, if it could be called that, a single noise in his throat. Atreus peeked up at him, ensuring that he was not in trouble.

“What if a wolf eats it because we’re too slow?”

“Then we will have something larger to eat.”

Atreus made a face, repulsed by the thought. He had yet to grasp the severity of this winter. He would in time. Kratos did not take it as an opportunity to advise him. It was best to let him be ignorant for now. There was no need to worry a child with their survival, it was not his job to keep them alive through this. There would come a time soon where they could not be choosey with their food. They could barely be now.

They marched on, following the tracks as they twisted through the trees. Atreus’s teeth chattered audibly. Regardless, he put on a brave face. An indecipherable amount of time passed.

“Mother told me that badgers live underground and that they don’t come out during winter. What do you think this one’s after?”

“Food, most likely. This winter was sudden and harsh. It must eat if it wants to survive.”

“I guess.” Atreus slowed, pointing. Kratos followed with his eyes down to the ground. “His tracks look weird. Almost like he started dragging his feet?”

It had. The tracks were long, the strides uneven. It was slowing down, succumbing either to the elements or to its hunger. “I see that. We keep going. It cannot be much farther.”

It was not. Within a hundred yards, they came upon it. It laid in the snow, motionless. Kratos put out a hand to signal Atreus to stop, unsure if it was still alive. Silently, Atreus reached for an arrow and notched it. The wind rustled the badger’s fur. It did not move, a stain of gray and brown against the pristine snow.

As if not to spook it, Atreus spoke in a loud whisper. “Do you think it's dead?”

“ _Shh_. I am not sure.” Kratos crept a few paces forward, stilling as the badger took a shallow breath. He was not the only one to notice.

“I saw it breathe just now!”

“Then fire when you are ready.” It was dying, but he did not want to take his chances.

The arrow hit its mark with a sick _thump._ The badger gave no struggle, no indication it had been hit. Weak, it gave its life without so much as a sound. Kratos jogged to it, Atreus at his heels. He scooped it up before a wolf or fox scurried by to take it. It felt underweight in his hands, bony under the fur, but it would do. Atreus shivered next to him, shouldering his bow in favor to hug himself. “Can we go home now? It’s so cold.”

“Mm. Come. We have all we need.” They did not, but he did not expect Atreus to stay out in this. The snowfall was beginning to pick up, and if they hurried, he would have time to prepare the badger before it froze.

The world around them became still once more. Kratos shouldered their kill, thoughts drifting again as they turned to head home.

As he put more time between himself and his last visit with Atreus, his fight grew weaker. He had been warm and solid and _real._ It had only been hours, but he craved it again, the peace he found in his arms was one he had gone too long without. He had no intention of losing it again. Sound in his reasoning, he gained a minute confidence in Atreus’s actuality. Though, again, Kratos found himself in a predicament.

If Atreus was real and whole and as good of a man as he remembered him, was he willing to put him in harm's way? Associating with him would absolutely make him a target for Odin. It was not like Atreus had not been a warrior. Though he was friendly, loving, and beyond the kindest man Kratos had ever met, they shared the same upbringing. In war, Atreus had been ruthless, unmerciful. Looking back now, Kratos wondered how much of it had been a desperate attempt to survive a life he had not wanted. There was no doubting his skill. Atreus had a talent for spear and shield unlike any other Spartan Kratos had faced. Surely, he could still hold his own. If their initial encounter had been any indicator, Atreus had not easily let go of his heritage. Perhaps he did not enjoy needless killing, but whatever was to happen concerning Odin would not be for indulgence. It would be for survival. Kratos had not instigated any violence between himself and the gods of these lands. Atreus would surely not lay it at his feet once he became aware.

He worried, however, about how he had missed the deer in the woods the day before. Had Atreus been that bad of a shot, he surely would have starved by now. It was not likely that he had forgotten how to fight. To be alive in these woods one had no option but to be a warrior. He looked healthy, maintained. He must have spotted Kratos and had tried to hit the deer first, or he had been shaking from the cold. The wind had been up, it was possible that it had blown his dory off course—

“Father?”

Again, his son’s voice called his attention. He abandoned his thoughts, finding himself trailing behind. Atreus had turned to look at him over his shoulder, still marching forward. “What?”

“Are you okay?” Worry filled each syllable. Outwardly, Kratos remained stoic in a way he intended to be unreadable. Atreus had a talent for deciphering other’s emotions. The mask he wore was likely more telling than anything else he could possibly do.

“Yes. Why would I not be?”

“This is the first time we’ve been out hunting that you haven’t spotted tracks first.” Atreus slowed until his father caught up. “I know it’s probably silly, but... I don’t know. It’s been bothering me.”

“That you found tracks before me?”

Atreus, embarrassed, looked at his feet. “Yeah. I mean, you usually find them first. I’m still learning.”

“I fail to see how this is not something good.” Kratos expected Mimir to jump into their conversation again, to agree with him and help reassure his son. He did not.

“But _how_?”

“How? Your eye is sharp. It is a sign that you are learning.” Kratos patted his shoulder, an awkward attempt at comfort. Even still, it was getting easier. He used to give affection so easily. It had been a privilege he had taken for granted.

“I…” Atreus exhaled sharply. The breath bloomed in the air before him. “You’ve been quieter than usual.”

Before this conversation could dig them into a hole Kratos could not get back out of, he tried to neutralize the accusation. “Am I not usually quiet?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Atreus said, pointedly, a bit irritated that his father had so casually brushed off his concern. “You just seem like you’re distracted. You almost tripped over me yesterday. You’ve never done that before.”

There was nothing to be said about it. The wind whipped the trees for a moment before calming. The world around them sounded more of death than the moans of the dying after battle. Snow gathered in the fur of Atreus’s vest.

“Are you worried about Fimbulwinter? It’s only been a few weeks and there are hardly any animals left.” Perhaps the boy was not as naïve as Kratos believed him to be.

“Yes. I suppose I am.” Agreeing was the simplest way to get out of this conversation.

Atreus came closer to his side as if offering comfort with his presence. Kratos acknowledged him by placing an arm around his shoulders. Neither of them said anything more of it.

By the time they reached home, there was still some light left. “Go inside,” he told Atreus, hand reaching for his knife. He needed to skin their badger before it froze solid beneath the house. In a different circumstance, perhaps, he would use this as a learning experience and demand his son learn to butcher his kill. It was a process Atreus feared, too compassionate and sympathetic to take an animal’s hide or meat with his own hands. It was far past time he learn and become confident. It was a life skill, an important one. Fortunately for the boy, it was far too cold for him to remain outside any longer, and the badger, being large and fresh, would only create a mess to clean indoors.

Atreus, shivering with his hands tucked in his armpits, complied without complaint. Kratos realized his mistake as soon as he heard the door shut behind him. He had not given the boy the head. Which meant he was alone with him, and this was a prime time for a lecture on his newfound nightly activities. He knelt, slicing through the fur and hide with practiced precision. It was not until he had it skinned, headless, and made the initial incision for gutting that the head spoke up. He began softly, as if cautious, knowing one wrong step would grind this conversation to a halt.

“Brother, while the boy’s not around, there are some words I’d like to have with you.”

Kratos did not recognize that he had spoken, instead continuing to focus on the task at hand. He cut away connective tissues holding the organs in place, pulling them from the open carcass and onto the ground. He had planned to go ahead and butcher it now while the meat was still somewhat supple. That was beginning to seemed less likely. Undeterred, the head spoke again, bolder in his tone this time as if that alone would be enough to dredge a response from him.

“I don’t know what you’re after, but do you really think now is the time to go wandering off at night? You don’t have to be the brightest to know you’ve got god’s blood on your hands, and your boy is the last of a kind Odin wants his grubby mitts on.”

Standing, Kratos gathered the scraps: the hide, the head, and the innards. With the cold, he kept as many skins as he could to tan, but he did not bother with it. The sooner he was within earshot of Atreus, the sooner the head would cease. He left the meat unattended for a moment to toss the rest of the animal out into the woods, returning to it quickly before it could become a meal for something other than himself and his son.

“You can’t seriously tell me whatever’s out there is more important to you than your only son?” The head’s tone remained level as if he was trying to keep detached from the situation, as if suggesting the idea would be enough to motive Kratos into correcting his behavior on his own. If only it were that simple. He knew nothing of the situation and Kratos did not blame him for it, though the accusatory bite of his words was felt.

“No. It is not.”

“Then _why_ in the bloody name of Auðumbla are you doing it?” His simple response had struck a chord, the head’s voice rising in pitch, upset and unable to understand.

Kratos changed the subject to something that was more important to him at the moment. “The boy is not to know.”

“Well, I think he has a right to know that his father’s up and leaving him when he’s most vulnerable.”

Mimir was not wrong, and the fact curled cold and scaly in Kratos’s heart like a snake. He was as disappointed with himself as Mimir sounded to be. It was not an easy decision, choosing between his son and the man he loved. Unable to do much else, he ended the conversation before he could become noticeably irritated. “Quiet.”

“I think I’d rather not be.”

Frustration mounting, Kratos stilled in the snow, the badger’s remains clutched in his hands. “Fine,” he said in a growl, “then tell me why I am not the only one who has been lying. If you wish so badly for him to know, you were in a position to be honest.”

Gracefully, _annoyingly_ , Mimir countered him, speaking his words as if they were an obvious truth. Which, they were. “I believe it’s in a father’s position to be honest. I think it not quite right of me to be the one to tell your son you've been lying to him all over again.”

Temper growing short, Kratos ignored him in favor of saving them both a disagreement. He made for the house.

“Perhaps I overstepped my bounds, eh?”

Warmth met him at the door. Atreus had relit the fire and was crouched on the floor beside it, hands outstretched. He watched as his father stored the meat in the crawlspace. His gaze piercing, leaving Kratos feeling unusually vulnerable. The boy was smart. He knew something was amiss. Kratos could not afford for his situation with Atreus of Sparta to weigh his mind much longer. He would either have to leave him be and forget or trust him with his past and his son sooner than he would like. He did not want to risk Atreus following him in the night to investigate his father’s disappearance.

He was left with only one option. It was for the best. Both for himself and for his son. He would only leave to see Atreus once more and he would tell him everything. Naturally, the process was one he dreaded. It was easy to keep secrets from his son, who knew nothing of him, but he and Atreus were very well acquainted in every sense. He would see scars he did not recognize. He had known Kratos long before his life had come apart at the seams. He would have questions Kratos could not dodge forever if he wanted a relationship with him. Opening up would not be easy, but he had trusted Atreus with everything when they were children. He had loved him blindly, and it was becoming uncomfortably apparent that he still did. There was, of course, the chance that Atreus would think him a monster and cast him away. It was something Kratos was unsure if he could handle. If it came to it, he would have to. It was understandable. He had single-handedly destroyed everything either of them had ever known. Destroyed the gods Atreus still praised. The land he still loved.

He would give himself a few days to gather his thoughts and his words, and then he would go. Until then, it was best he focus on what he could not afford to lose. He brought a chair to the fire, sitting next to Atreus, who had returned to his drawings. A badger, this time, it’s striped face painstakingly shaded to resemble the texture of its fur. Kratos watched the flames flicker in the pit.

~

It did not take very long for Kratos to learn of Atreus’s skill in combat. He had misjudged him gravely. His elbows and knees bloody and sore from having his legs swept out from under him. His skin nicked from narrowly avoiding the tip of Atreus’s spear. His herd was to begin sparing with _real_ weapons tomorrow, no longer were they to practice with sticks or tipless shafts.

Again, his back hit the ground. His head rang, the sound of Atreus’s voice tinny in his ears. “Again.” They had been at this for hours. Kratos was sore, exhausted, and hungry. He would not ask for a break. He would prove himself worthy of one. Atreus waited for him to struggle to his feet, and before he could ready his weapon, Atreus was at him again, unpitying, his speartip caught his cloak and ripped it, a breath away from his skin. Kratos sighed. He had much sewing to do. “More to the right and I would have gutted you. Focus, Kratos.”

“I _am_ focusing.” His frustration read true in his tone. He was not, his form had grown sloppy. His attention was divided between the rumbling of his stomach and the ache of his body. It left little for this.

“Boys will die tomorrow,” Atreus warned, sounding more serious than Kratos had ever heard him. Instinctually, he straightened his back. “You will not be one of them.”

He would not be. Kratos had known this since before Atreus had put a spear in his hand. He knew how to fight. He and Deimos had played with real spears daily. Of course, the objective had not been to bring major harm, simply to draw a little blood. Back then, he had not been outmatched. Surely he knew his way around these weapons still, it was unlikely he had forgotten. Atreus would not simply give him the chance to refresh his memory.

“Again.”

This time, Atreus allowed him to ready his stance, taking on what Kratos perceived to be a more defensive approach. Offense was his strength, though it was every Spartan’s. Atreus parried every blow. As their match wore on, Kratos became more aggressive, focusing solely on using his brute strength to force through a block. His victory was elusive and the trend was beginning to infuriate him. While he was relieved that he had been paired with someone of great skill, spending so much time laying in the dust taught him nothing. He dropped his shield lower as he jabbed hard and without thought, losing the patience to calculate his movements. Atreus, after a parry had left Kratos open, drove his foot into the middle his shield.

His arm was strapped in, meaning he went with it. Again, Kratos found himself on the ground, glaring up at the sky. Atreus came into view, looking down at him, sweat on his brow and a smile on his lips. “Your weapons can be turned against you. You must remain conscious of them at all times.”

“I know,” Kratos said, hauling himself up.

“You have both a spear and a shield for a reason. Do not use just one.”

“I said _I know._ ” He feared for a moment that Atreus would retell him the story with the hare and the tortoise.

“Then show me. Again.”

This time, he raised his shield to deflect Atreus’s first strike. “Good!” He stepped backward in time for Atreus to miss a kick to his legs, a dirty move he favored in order to trip him. Atreus, instead, went sprawling, the metal of his shield scraping the earth as he tried to break his fall. Kratos laughed briefly at him, the hum of victory singing in his veins. It had made his time and blood worth it to see Atreus in the same humiliating position he had been in a hundred times today. “Very good. Critique me. Where did I go wrong?”

Kratos thought a moment, leaning on his spear. “You were too confident in your ability to knock me down, putting too much weight into—” Atreus, without warning, had gone from listening patiently to swiping at Kratos’s ankles with his dory. Blindly, Kratos stumbled backward in surprise, not expecting for Atreus’s lesson to be a diversion. He lost his balance in his haste and landed ungracefully in the dirt. Annoyed, he scrambled upwards. Atreus cackled. The noise ignited something dangerous within him.

“And you were too confident that you had won. If you are within reach of a breathing enemy, then the battle is not over.”

“It is not as if I can kill you. That was unfair.”

Atreus pulled himself up to sit, dirt clinging to his hair. “And you think war is fair? Just because you’re the best in your herd does not mean you will be the best in battle. You think you are strong and maybe you are, but you are cocky. That will get you killed before any man who is weak.” Kratos felt his annoyance flare into something bigger. He let it fuel him, raising his dory square with Atreus’s nose. He did not seem impressed or fearful. If anything, he was disappointed.

“Stand,” said Kratos, “we go again.” It was a word he was sick of hearing, but it felt good to throw it back in Atreus’s face.

“That,” Atreus said, getting to his feet to gesture harmlessly at Kratos with his shield, “is what I am talking about. You’re—” Kratos, in an attempt to cease his talking, jabbed hard towards his chest, with all intention of causing harm. Atreus pulled his shield in front of himself, the collision jarring both of them. The loud clash of metal drew the attention of a group of boys practicing not far from them. “As I was _saying,_ you are angry. Anger will hinder you. You will not think rationally. You will attack with all you have and leave yourself open. In war you will fight hundreds, not just one.” Kratos took the advice without complaint. If the last few hours had been any indication, Atreus knew well what he preached. He breathed deeply, attempting to calm down. Atreus was not trying to make him feel inferior, he was trying to help. To ensure he did not come out of tomorrow injured or worse. Atreus waited patiently and did not speak until the rage that had broiled inside of him began to calm. “One more time and then we are done for today.” Kratos knew it was because they were losing light, but he did not voice it, yearning to return to his bed of reeds and nurse his aching limbs. “Prove to me that I will not lose you tomorrow.”

For the first time, Kratos’s drove his dory true, slicing through Atreus’s cloak and into his flank. It could not have been deep, but it bled freely. Kratos stood dumbly and watched as Atreus clutched his wound, his weapon discarded on the ground to free his hand. He did not know whether he should feel pride or concern. The later was something he had not felt since coming here. Though he supposed no one had felt it for him either. That was where the difference with Atreus lied. Abruptly, Atreus burst into laughter, thrilled with his progress. He took his hand from the wound, wriggling his arm free of his shield. His blood slicked his fingers. “It is about time you proved yourself! You will be just fine.”

“Are _you_?” Kratos asked, hesitant. “Fine?” He tore his gaze away from the blood to look Atreus in the eye.

“I have had much worse. It is a scratch, nothing more.” He wiped his hand off on his cloak, squinting as he tried to read the position of the sun. “You have just enough time to patch your cloak if you start now.” He gathered their weapons, grimacing as he bent for his spear. The smile on his face had yet to fade. “Go, Kratos. I’ve shown you once, I will not again.”

Kratos turned, leaving Atreus to his own.

~

The days turned into weeks. From the beginning, he had known this would happen. He had hoped limiting himself to a few days would have forced him into action. However, as time went on, it became easier. Kratos thought of Atreus of Sparta less and less. He gained back his focus. He lived squarely in the present. Regardless, he took no pride in it. He knew his ways. He was not letting go of him to keep his family safe. He was doing so because he was afraid. He did not want to tell him the truth of what he had done. It was easier to let Atreus live in ignorance and to lose him entirely than to have him at all. He rather the last image he have of Atreus be of him in bed, half-asleep and waving him along with a crooked grin than of him filled fear. Fear of _him._

In the midst of the third week, he woke to his son crying in the night, muffled from where he hid in his nest of bedding. Kratos had done nothing at the time. He had lain there, lame and dumb, and let it happen. There had been a part of him that itched to comfort, to go to his child and wipe away his tears. There was another part of him that could not. The part of him he tried so hard now to keep at bay, the part of him that felt anger and fear and the weight of his deeds. His son deserved better. He deserved someone who could show him love and emotion without a second thought. He was still so young. Fragile, impressionable, vulnerable. By the time Fimbulwinter passed, he would be still. Kratos thought of Faye's mural. Of him depicted dead or dying in his child's arms. Atreus would need someone to care for him. To continue to teach him, nurture any developing abilities that came with his blood. To openly love him in ways Kratos struggled to.

The night after, he found himself back at Atreus’s home, at his door this time. It took several moments for him to gain the courage to raise his fist and knock. It cracked open cautiously, Atreus obviously unused to having guests. This was likely the first time anyone had come to knock on his door. His eyes lit with recognition immediately, his previous apprehension completely forgotten. Before Kratos could speak, Atreus raised onto his toes and threw his arms around his neck.

“Oh, thank the gods,” he said, relief flooding his words as it had in the woods, “I was so sure I had seen the last of you.” He pulled away, gripping Kratos by the arms to look him over. Seeming pleased with what he found, he released his grip. “Please, come in.”

Kratos had been sure of that as well, though he did not voice it. He followed Atreus inside, shedding Leviathan along the way, leaving it propped by the door. He acted as if he did not notice the subdued smile it earned from Atreus. They sat side by side at his table. Neither of them spoke for a long while, Kratos took the opportunity as a last chance to survey the cabin. To be sure it was real before he made himself open and vulnerable.

Suddenly, Atreus took a deep breath, as one did when preparing to say something dire. It filled Kratos with a disquiet he did not care to ponder. He was not sure what Atreus could, within reason, tell him that he would not want to hear. He waited, calm and still, for Atreus to speak when he was ready. The crackle of the fire filled the room, deafening.

With movements slow and reluctant, Atreus turned his body toward him. Kratos, steeling himself, turned his head. “This is not a conversation I want to have,” Atreus began, his tone sad and dark, “but I cannot allow this to continue.”

Kratos’s heart dropped into his gut. Surely this was because of him. What had he done? Rooted in his seat, he could not make himself leave, even if it was what Atreus wished. He played dumb, though he could not maintain eye contact. Instead, he stared at the grain of the table. It was more than enough to give him away. “Allow what to continue?”

“ _Us_ , Kratos.”

After all of this time. After he had spent so long trying to reason his way through the proper way to handle this. After preparing himself mentally and emotionally for the things he would have to say, any outcome he would have to live with. All of it and _now_ he was losing Atreus all over again before he even had worked up the gall to open his mouth.

“I do not understand.”

“You leave before dawn. You come here only at night. Don’t you dare play me for a fool. I may be selfish and I may love you beyond all reason, but I will not stand idly by and let you betray someone else.”

“I…” Kratos spoke before giving himself time to formulate a response. Relief filled every ounce of his being.

“I know she is not dead.”

“It is more complicated of a situation than you know.”

“And you expect me to know what that means? You do not have to tell me everything, Kratos, but I need you to tell me enough.”

Kratos met his eyes and Atreus reached for his hand. “She is dead,” Kratos said, his voice faint.

Atreus’s shoulders lost some of their tension.

“Forgive me,” he said, apologetically, believing the words even though he had no reason to. “I did not want to doubt your actions, I just—”

“No. It is understandable.”

They shared a long quiet, one of which was marginally uncomfortable. Atreus held Kratos’s hand in his lap and stroked his fingers. Suddenly, he stood, and Kratos folded his arms on the tabletop. The skin of his forearms crawled. He had not the strength to begin telling the first of his many truths.

“Have you eaten? I know it is late, but it would be rude of me not to feed you.”

“I am fine.”

Atreus settled back onto his stool. He folded his hands politely in front of him, though his face read of dejection. It was in his nature to provide and care. He had always been that way, as far back as Kratos’s memory could provide. It was difficult to wrap his head around the idea that Atreus had come here alone, believing he would be so until the end of his days. It was also hard to believe after all this time he had not found love again. He had been alone when Kratos had found him, eager to pick up where they had left off in _all_ manners of their relationship. Had he truly been without another this entire time? Kratos had married two wives in the time since they had last spoken, given life to two children. It was a long time for a man to spend on his own. He found himself concerned with that, the idea that Atreus had fled with the idea of finding happiness and landed squarely into misery. It was no secret that Atreus was a social creature. He always had been since they were children. He was friendly, intelligent, _good_. It was a feat not to enjoy his company. To be alone was to be out of his element.

Promptly, Kratos found himself resentful that Atreus had fled searched for a better life _without_ him. He had not been given so much as a warning. Atreus thought it best if they were never to see each other again. Admittedly, it stung. A low broiling hurt festered in his chest. Feeling abandoned had been an emotion he had stomped out. Feeling abandoned with purpose was something he could not control. It was an emotion that was not his spiraling apprehension and he was glad to feed it.

“Why did you leave?”

“Greece? I thought I had already explained myself.”

“Why did you leave without me?”

Atreus sighed as if the topic were a chore he did not wish to complete. Kratos could not help but feel offended. “Because you would have demanded to come, and I could not have told you no. Is this why you are so distant tonight? You’ve barely spoken a word.”

It was the truth. Had he known of Atreus planning an escape, he would have fought tooth and nail to go with him. Unwilling to agree or to admit that there were deeper reasons for his being here, Kratos said nothing.

“My apology will not be enough to take your pain away. What I did may have been… _incorrect_ of me, but at the time I thought it necessary.”

“Because you did not want to marry—you could have charmed any woman, you did not have to love her.” The words were akin to pulling a rug from underneath Atreus’s feet. Kratos felt no shame.

Atreus was visibly irritated, lips pulling into a tight frown. He smoothed his hands down his cloak as if to compose himself. “That is enough. You know well why I could not.”

“If you left once, there is no reason that you could not again—”

“ _Enough,_  Kratos. I will not stand for this. You _cannot_ show up here whenever you please—at whatever hour you please—to pick a fight and leave for days at a time. This is not an argument we will have. If you wish to discuss it, then we will. Civilly.” He took a deep breath, obviously frustrated. Kratos could not tell which of them it was directed at. When he spoke again, his voice had leveled out some, gained a hint of tenderness to it. “If you are angry, I understand. I have no doubt that you are confused. I did what I did out of love. I do not expect forgiveness, I do not expect you to understand, but I would like you to try. You had a very good life. You were blessed with opportunities most men can only dream of. I did not want you to lose that.” The flickering of the flames cast enough light for Kratos to recognize the sadness in his expression, in his eyes. There was some dark irony in knowing he had lost it all anyway. He believed Atreus’s regret to be true and reigned his anger. They could not make up for lost time if he harbored a grudge.

They sat for a long while, listening to the wind’s violent rattle. Atreus left briefly to check on the fire in the hearth, returning as he attempted to hide his smile in his sleeve. Kratos raised his eyes, unsure of what he found so endearing. Before taking a seat, Atreus reached from him, cradling his head against his body. “Oh, my love,” he said, fingers stroking his cheek, “You look like you expect to be beaten. It is alright. You have every right to be angry, but there are other ways to deal with it.”

The fur of his cloak was coarse, but a comfort, Kratos closed his eyes, memorizing his touch.

Time passed until Kratos could no longer keep track of it. Finally, Atreus pulled away to take a seat. He took both of Kratos’s hands in his, his skin chapped and cold to the touch. “I do not mean to be forward, but you are not yourself. You have hardly spoken, you refuse to eat. I do not think you came only to take out your aggression on me, did you?”

At once, Kratos felt his mouth go dry. Atreus knew him well, even after all this time. “I suppose I have not changed, then.”

Atreus squeezed his fingers tight, his brow furrowed. “You were angry as a child. You handled it much better as you grew.” There is an unspoken _I would know_ . Atreus had practically raised him. He _would_ know. There was no hiding from him. It was strange how he could still read him like an open book, even after he had become so hardened. “Kratos.” His tone was coaxing. Kratos, not realizing he had averted his gaze, looked to him. “I cannot help you until you tell me what is wrong. I understand that you have become…” His eyes roamed as he searched for the word, Kratos was unsure if it was due to him avoiding offense or being unfamiliar with the language _._ Suddenly, it occurred to him that Atreus had not spoken in Greek once since they had met. “ _Private_ since I have last seen you, but holding your tongue does not better you.”

The wind whistled outside, loud enough to drown out the ambient noise of the hearth. Dread filled the core of Kratos’s being. Sweat prickled his palms. He did not know where to begin, or how to. He had put no thought into it beforehand, foolishly believing he would never have to recount the disasters Atreus avoided in his absence. He was unsure if telling him would be worth the burden. How could he still love him? Look at him as a man and not a monster? He took a deep breath, minutely aware his rising panic would not help, and focused on clearing his mind. The words would come. Atreus watched him closely, curious yet patient. Kratos pulled his hands from his grip and began, though his stomach churned. “Do you still wish to know why I came here?”

“Of course, but I am not entitled to. You were rather upset last I asked.” He patted Kratos twice on the thigh. Atreus must have perceived that he was about to speak again and he scrambled to intercept him. “I know I was unhappy that you would not tell me, but I have made my peace with it. If you believe it to be none of my concern then it is just that. You have no reason to trust me with your past. I do not know what has happened in the years between then and now, and it is not my business to.”

“I said it was to be none of your concern until I deemed otherwise.” Saying it aloud made him feel boxed in. This was in the best interest for his son. After this he could go home, _stay home._ There would be no more need to leave in the night, to his son aside whilst dangers lurked.

The weight of his words setting in, Atreus’s eyes brightened. He sat forward in his chair. “By ‘otherwise’ you mean now? So soon?”

“Yes.” Desperately, he clung to what Atreus had told him: _There is nothing you can do to make me stop caring for you_. He was soon to put his unconditional love to the test. Childishly, he clung to the last few moments of Atreus’s ignorance, uncertain if they would be the last he would see of him happy. Before he could overthink his decision, Kratos steadied himself with a deep breath. “Have you ever been told of a Ghost of Sparta?”

An uneasy smile pulled Atreus’s lips. His brow knit and he shook his head in confusion. “A Ghost of Sparta?” Hearing him say the words made something akin to sickness curl in Kratos’s stomach. “I do not think I remember that one going around the barracks.” He laughed. It lacked confidence. He believed it a story, something to frighten the children. Likely, that was not incorrect. Uncaring of the bitter cold, sweat crawled down the back of Kratos’s neck. There was no running from this conversation, no matter how badly he wanted to. Any resistance would only serve to raise more questions. If he did not answer them now, he would have to eventually if he wished to have both Atreus and his son in his life. Though putting this off for another night would be an easier option, he had done so long enough. It was time.

“It did not.”

The words did nothing in the way of offering clarity. Atreus cocked his head, unable to fit together any of the pieces Kratos was giving him. “Then what is it?”  
  
“Me.” There were no simpler terms to put it in.

Still lost, Atreus waited before speaking, a silent urge for Kratos to fill in the blanks for him. When the answers did not come, he asked, “You? You mean you are a Ghost of Sparta?”

“ _The_. I am the Ghost of Sparta.”

“ _The_ Ghost of Sparta,” he repeated, carefully. “I still do not understand what that means.”

Regardless of his readiness to stray from the topic, it was obvious that Atreus knew nothing of the title. He would have no choice but to explain it. He sought different words, trying to recall how he had explained this to his son. “I fought a battle I could not win and called upon Ares to spare me.”

“And it seems that he did! You are incredibly blessed—he ignores the cries of many men, Kratos, he must have seen something great in you.” Atreus took his hands again, gripping them tight. He beamed with misplaced pride.

“There are times I wish he had not.”

“What do you mean? Ares saved your life. You would not be sitting here this very moment had he not.”

“You do not know everything. It did not come without a price. I traded him my soul. Served him personally.” Atreus would not understand the severity unless Kratos showed him the physical reminders he was forced to carry. Sitting up straight, he dug inside himself for courage that he did not possess. Atreus watched with a quirked brow as he brought an arm up between them.

“What are you...?” His voice trailed as Kratos began to unwrap the tattered bandages. His wounds were clearly visible in the firelight, raised and ugly. Unthinking, Atreus reached for his arm, to touch and inspect. He stilled mid-movement as Kratos tucked it defensively against his chest. “How did that happen?”

Kratos spoke as he forcefully rewrapped his arm. “I was _gifted_ blades.” He spat the word. They were not a gift, they were a curse. “Seared into my skin.”

The face Atreus made was one out of pity. His mouth pressed into a fine line. His eyes softened. Kratos could not bear to look at it. These marks symbolized his every wrongdoing. They were a permanent reminder of everything he could not undo. Time he would never get back. Atreus laid a hand on his knee. “Do not pull those so tightly.” Like a child facing a parent, Kratos contemplated disobeying. He found that he could not and loosened the bandages. Atreus folded his hands in his lap and continued to speak. “I’m afraid I do not understand. We were Spartans. Worshipping Ares was in our blood. To serve him personally would be the highest honor. What reason is there for you to be so angry?”

“He found my wife and daughter to be a distraction.”

“The elders deemed your child fit?” It dawned on him that Atreus had never known the fate of his daughter. He had gone missing before she had been born.

“Yes, they did. She was born a warrior.” There was much more to it than that. He had been willing to go to the ends of the Earth to ensure her survival. In the end, he had killed her anyway. The guilt was a burden from which he would never find relief.

“Lysandra gave you a daughter?” The excitement in his voice made Kratos’s heart ache. He had missed the point entirely, preoccupied with the news that was coming to him decades late. Kratos loathed what he must tell him next.

“Calliope. He had them placed in a village I was to destroy. I was blinded with rage. I did not know.”

It took several moments for Atreus to piece together the meaning of what he had just been told. He searched his face, expression filled with emotions that Kratos could not care to name. Atreus reached for his shoulder, holding it firmly. “I am so sorry.” His words carried grief, pity, and remorse all at once. He must have been deeply ashamed of worshipping the God that did this to him. Kratos could not bring himself to imagine how that must feel.

“I was cursed to wear their ashes on my skin.” The sentence evoked an immediate reaction, Atreus yanking his hands away from him. Kratos’s stomach rolled with the fear that he would never feel them again. He wanted so badly to reach out to him, but instead balled his hands into fists and forced them to be still. “You do not have to touch me.” He hated how broken he sounded to his own ears. Atreus recognized his mistake and sought to remedy it by smoothing his palm down the bandages on Kratos’s forearm. The contact had Kratos’s muscles wound as tight as a bowstring, and for a brief moment they locked eyes. His secret was no longer so and though he wanted to pull away, there was no reason to. Instead, his eyes traced the movement, unable to make sense of the longing it placed in his mind.

“No,” said Atreus, attention split between Kratos's eyes and where he linked their fingers. “No, I do not care about that… it is simply that I spoke of this as if it were nothing last you were here.”

“You did not know.” Between the two of them, he was not the one that should carry guilt. In the moment, Kratos had been thankful for the excuse he provided him. Atreus had not pressed him on it and had been easily distracted from the topic at the time. All else considered, it had gone over far better than Kratos had planned.

“That does not change how I spoke. It must have been unbearable to hear me speak of it so casually.” Sorrow rang in his tone. Kratos knew he would not be able to find enough words to explain its misplacement, his mind a flurry of every detail he had left unsaid. Though his mouth was dry, he forced himself to speak.

“I was only surprised you did not say something sooner.”

“I said nothing because I did not want to pass judgment on you so soon. You are grown, I figured it out of place to say such things now.” Kratos had no reply. He held tight to his forearm. The fire crackled menacingly, a reminder of lives he had no right to take. Atreus studied him carefully, his eyes flitting between Kratos’s bandages and his face, trying to bridge the gaps that had not been explained. He did not speak again for a long time. The wind filled the silence, howling at the door. Finally, he spoke. “I cannot imagine how hard it has been for you since I left. I am not asking for your forgiveness, but had I known how your life was to turn, I would have stayed. Been there for you. Perhaps things would have been easier had you known you were loved.”

“It is in the past,” Kratos said with a sense of finality. He did not want to linger on this subject longer than strictly necessary. Had Atreus been in Sparta, he would have killed him either by his own hand or during the fall of Olympus. At least he had been far away, safe, and had bared no witness to what he had done. “I sought my vengeance.”

Atreus’s lips parted, it took a moment for him to find the sense form words. “Against the God of War?” He sounded utterly dumbfounded, most likely believing him a fool.

“Yes,” Kratos said, his voice a carrying rumble. “I killed him.”

“You… _killed_ the God of War?”

“And became it myself.”

“You were a god?” A mindless note of pride invaded his tone. Kratos felt his stomach tie itself in a knot. It was nothing to be proud of. By nature, he had already been a god. It had been only a title. A position. One he had earned by walking a needless path of vengeance and bloodshed. “I should have been worshipping _you_.”

“No.” Kratos spoke immediately, the swiftness of his response catching Atreus off guard.  “You should not have been. And you will never.”

“I… I understand.” Atreus hung his head in an apologetic display of shame. Relief flooded Kratos, though it was hard to identify it as such, a cold flush through his veins.

“I shed unnecessary blood.”

“We all did.” Laughter fit itself between the words, pitched low with incredulity. “We were Spartans, Kratos.”

“You do not understand. I alone was more brutal than any war we waged. I killed the innocent and undeserving without reason. I was a monster.”

Promptly, Atreus jumped to his defense. “Do not call yourself that,” he snapped, “I am sure you had a reason.”

“I enjoyed it,” said Kratos, audibly heated. Atreus knew nothing. Pretending that he did was pointless. “That was my reason. I found pleasure in blood as a man would wine.”

As if it cleared nothing, Atreus titled his head. “Again, we were _Spartans_. Everyone enjoyed war. Strove to die in it. I still don’t understand.”

“I was killing outside of war. Women. Children. It did not matter. They would lay eyes on me and scream. Run. I cast aside everything you taught me. I was a _monster._ ” Finally, it seemed he had gotten through. Atreus fell silent. His eyes dropped to the floor, worrying his lip between his teeth. He said nothing. Kratos had no doubt he was just now beginning to imagine the degree of all the atrocities he had committed. When he could hold his tongue no longer, Kratos asked, “Are you afraid of me?” His question a near-nothing rasp, one he was not sure he wanted to be answered.

“By the gods,” Atreus said, immediately and out of habit, recoiling visibly at his word choice. Nevertheless, it did not stop him from surging forward to cradle Kratos’s jaw. “You sleep wrapped in my arms like a babe. You have brought no harm to me. This changes nothing. It is in the past. To me, you are no different.”

There was no way to know the degree of honesty to which he spoke, but Kratos was grateful to hear it aloud regardless. He nodded, once, searching Atreus’s eyes for things he did not want to find. “I was told slaying Ares would release me from the torment of the memories. The dreams—”

“Oh, my love.” Again, pity cast his features. As if Atreus could not bear the idea of Kratos suffering. He had destroyed all he had left, sleepless nights were the least of what he deserved.

“I was desperate to forget.”

“I am sure you were. It is a horrendous thing to live with, yet here you are.” The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. He was proud, as he always was. Kratos could make no sense as to why. Atreus loved so blindly that he lost his rationale. It was quite concerning, actually.

“I misunderstood their promises. I threw myself from Mount Olympus.”

“You… survived?” It was not a question of if he had but how. With some of the worst of their conversation behind them, Kratos found himself relaxing some. It would not last.

“The gods would not allow it.”

“Oh, praise be.” Relief coated his voice, though his expression read apologetic. It would take time for him to break the habits of his faith. Though Kratos understood that, it made it no less uncomfortable. He had no comment. Atreus spoke again, quiet and reluctant. The regret in his tone was distressing _._ “You are not alone in having wished for your life to end.”

“What?”

“I’ve been alone for a very long time in these woods. Some days it is enough to drive a man mad.” Atreus being in such low spirits was a foreign idea, one Kratos could not begin to picture. He had been happy. Upbeat. The light Kratos had spent his life following. In the instances where they disagreed or something went awry, he could never remember Atreus being miserable. He had been disappointed, angry even, but never had Kratos seen him generally unhappy. Regardless of the situation, he had smiled. It was who he was, why everyone had found him an inspiration. One of the many things Kratos had fallen in love with.

It was too late by the time he realized how resentful he felt. There was no preventing how it festered. Atreus had done this to himself. He had come to these lands knowing he would be alone. That he would never find love again. He had no right to end the misery he had inflicted upon himself. If he had come here expecting total unfulfillment, then Kratos failed to understand why he had not remained in Greece. Perhaps they would not be here if he had, with Kratos spelling out his sins in the dirt.

As the shock began to fade, Kratos backpedaled from his brooding. It was very much how he thought in Sparta, pinning the blame on everyone but himself. It was, frankly put, terrifying. Atreus held the key to resurrecting old pieces of himself, the parts he wished to stay buried. He searched for something to say that was appropriate before belatedly realizing a fatal flaw in his thinking. “Neither of us had the right. Our hardship was of our own doing.”

Atreus had left hoping to give him a better life. One of happiness and successes. He could not foresee what was to happen and it was unfair to condemn him. Guilt ate away at the corner of his mind, though the sudden grin Atreus sported distracted him from it.

“Do you remember the night that you were so _unfairly_ convinced to help steal food?” Of course he did. “You were caught. Whipped. You told me it was their fault for it, that if it had just been you alone, you would not have been seen. Oh, how your back bled for days. I remember how you cried…”

“I did not cry. What is the point of this?”

Atreus’s thumb stroked his knuckles. “I am playing with you. My point is how much you have grown. There was a time you could not stand to place responsibility on yourself. I see that has changed.” Again, he radiated pride as though Kratos had not told him mere minutes ago that his hands were stained with the blood of thousands. It was severely misplaced.

Exhaustion pulled heavy at Kratos’s limbs. He was barely scraping the surface. There was too much to tell. He forced himself to continue. If he did not finish this now, he did not trust that he ever would. “I found my father.”

“You did?” Atreus's eyebrows raised. He shifted to the edge of his seat. Kratos held his breath, unsure of why he had even come tonight. “He is alive?”

“He was.”

Atreus smiled, optimistically. It was his nature. Something Kratos had respected. In this moment it was exhausting. There was nothing positive to be said about his past. While on the topic of family, he pondered if it would be worthwhile be to mention Deimos. He had found him as well, lost him within hours. It was not crucial. They had more than enough to discuss as it was. “Did you get a chance to speak with him, at least? Who was he?”

“Zeus.”

“ _Zeus_?” Atreus said, his words fragmented, stupefied.

“Your _father_?” There was not even a hint of his smile. “My hearer is the son of Zeus himself…”

“Do not celebrate it.”

“Why wouldn't I?” Atreus gained a defensive edge. Kratos let it go. There was still much he did not know. “Zeus is your _father_. I feel like that explains so much, yet I cannot believe it. Are you certain?”

“Yes. Ares was not the only god I slew.”

Atreus read between the lines. “You…?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“That does not matter.”

Atreus sat back, frustrated with the lack of detail Kratos was willing to supply. He felt no sympathy. He preferred Atreus know only the minimum. “I think it does. You killed the king of the gods. Your own father. That is no easy feat, regardless of who or what you were.”

“What matters is that Greece no longer stands. The gods are dead.” He had single-handedly destroyed everything Atreus had ever known. The blood of the very gods he still worshipped marred his hands. Shame found its usual home in his soul, deep-rooted and not easily forgotten. He watched Atreus’s face fall until he could not bear to any longer.

“Sparta?”

“Gone.”

There was a long silence as Atreus processed the information. Kratos fought the urge to bounce his leg in impatience. Not for the first time tonight, he considered leaving, never to return. Atreus did not know his whereabouts. He would never have to face him again.

“I… I am sorry but I have no words.”

“You are not the one who should be sorry.”

“Kratos. Look at me.” Atreus did not speak again until he did. “I did not plan to go back. I can never go back. That is a consequence I have lived with from the moment I stepped from Greek soil. As for the gods, alive or dead, they still bless me. How else would I have found you?” Atreus held his face between his hands, his mouth downturned in a rare frown. Kratos had nothing to offer, tired in a way he could not comprehend. Faye had always encouraged him to speak to her about these things. She had known details he could never make Atreus aware of. With her, he had felt some weight relieved from his shoulders. She had made the burden easier to bare. Sharing it between the two of them. Telling Atreus, however, was something different entirely. He felt every ounce of his sins, a crushing weight in his heart. He wanted nothing more than to sleep.

It must have been readable on his face. “Well. I think that is more than enough for tonight. It is late and I’m sure you must go at some unbearable hour.” He stood. “Come on. To bed with us now.”

Kratos accepted his hand up. Atreus steered him across the room, letting go to undress. After a moment’s consideration, Kratos joined him, shedding his clothes into a careless pile on the floor. It was not until he had stripped bare that Atreus took him roughly by the shoulder, forcing them to stand face to face. “Where did you get this?”

The scar on his stomach. He had failed to mention it before. “I was mad with power. Zeus saw to it himself that I was dealt with.”

“This was deep.” Kratos could not find logic to explain why Atreus was more upset over a scar than anything else he had told him.

“Yes, it was.” After a moment he took Atreus’s wrist, guiding his hand around his side and to his back, where the Blade of Olympus had pierced him through. Upon realizing what he was feeling, Atreus yanked his hand away.

He took a deep breath and composed himself. “You have survived much,” he said, sounding shaken. “Do you have anything else I must know?”

“I do not think so.” It was a lie. Odin was a subject Atreus desperately need know. His son's dream of Thor hung heavy in his mind. He had told the boy not to fret over it. Nevertheless, he prepared himself mentally for the fight that would come. If Faye had known their entire journey from the people they would meet to the very steps they would take, then who was to say that their child could not foresee the future as well? For now, however, he was tired. It would be a discussion for another time. He had given Atreus more than enough to think about tonight.

“I will always listen, but we both need to rest. Into bed with you.”

Wordlessly, Kratos followed the order, Atreus flipping back the furs for him. He knew this was an excuse for Atreus to end their conversation. To give him time to process everything Kratos had placed onto his shoulders. Right now, Atreus was in a state of disbelief. Once the shock waned and the truth of his deeds sank in, Atreus could very well send him away for good. In the morning, he figured he would see the true outcome. Time would tell. For now, Atreus was pressed tightly against his side, his naked skin almost unbearably warm against his own. He had nearly forgotten what this felt like, to lay so vulnerable with someone. It was something he had not realized he missed. He turned onto his side. Atreus rested his hand on his hip, his thumb stroking the skin. He made no attempt to seduce. Kratos did not voice his surprise nor his gratitude.

“I’ve always dreamt of you in my bed. I never thought I would have this.” Kratos had not, either. A log shifted in the hearth. He did not startle, but the noise roused his awareness. “I am glad you told me. I feared you would never trust me as you had when we were young.” He raked his fingers through Kratos’s beard, as if in thought. His focus was not on the present. Kratos wondered if he should have gone home in order for Atreus to have time to think. “You have been through much heartache. I hope you found at least some respite here.”

His past was something he could not run away from. If he could have simply left it in Greece, then he would have. The memories never left him, dreams still haunted his sleep. He had simply learned to function regardless of them. Faye had given him another chance to be a husband and a father. One for which he was forever grateful. He had lost her, but not by his own hand. His son was healthy. Mourning, lonely, but blessedly alive. “I married a good woman. She helped me make my peace.”

“Mm. Yet I still do not know her name.”

“Faye.”

“Faye,” Atreus repeated. The name was quiet and to himself. Kratos could not read the emotion in it.

“Did she give you another child?”

His answer was immediate, following his instinct to protect. “No. She wanted to, I did not. It mattered little; she fell ill and it was her illness that took her from me.”

“I suppose it is a good thing then. That you do not have to raise a motherless child.”

“Yes. It is.” It was not. Without his son, Kratos would have no reason to see himself out of bed each morning. The prospect of raising his son alone had been terrifying, a feat he did not believe himself capable of, yet he had managed this far. When Faye had passed he believed they would remain strangers indefinitely. It had been a gift in disguise, as Faye’s death had only strengthened their bond. Their relationship had bettered significantly within an extremely short amount of time.

“You are lucky to have loved so much.” Bitterness set a heat behind his voice. Kratos knew it was not out of jealousy. Atreus did not care that he had spent his life pining for a single man. He cared that Kratos had not. He loved him all the same, yet Kratos had no explanation why he had been able to find others to fill the role. Though his tongue itched with an apology, Kratos did not feel it fair to speak it. Love was not something to beg for forgiveness over. He had thought Atreus a dead man and moved on. Atreus, in kind, had known the truth. It was a point he did not care to take the time to explain.

The comment dismantled the string of their conversation, leaving them stranded in an uncomfortable quiet. When Atreus did nothing to remedy it after a few minutes, Kratos turned his back to him. Atreus followed suit, fitting himself into the contours of his body. He slipped an arm under Kratos’s neck, the other winding around his side, pulling them together as tight as he could manage.

Though exhaustion clawed at him, Kratos could not settle his thoughts. They raced about in his mind, fleeting fragments of memories and doubts. He tried repeatedly to quieten them. He thought of Faye. Of his son. Of the man holding him as if he were something precious. Nothing brought him peace. His future with Atreus was a gaping unknown and it scared him.

“Atreus.”

“Yes, my love?” Even after all he had said, Atreus’s tone still carried the same warm note. He had not a clue as to how.

“You truly do not fear me?” He needed to know for sure. It would be the last time he asked.

“Fear you? I am absolutely terrified! Though, I must say you are most formidable when curled in my arms. Your snores shake me to my very core!” He jabbed Kratos in the side, trying to lighten the air between them. On instinct, Kratos snatched his wrist in a vice, feeling the joint give. Atreus did not make any indication he had been hurt. Regardless, he loosened his grip some.

“Do not do that.”

Undeterred, Atreus sat up. Kratos did not let go of him, shifting onto his back. Atreus went for him again with his uncaptured hand, laughing as Kratos intercepted it easily. He did nothing to escape the hold on his wrists, something mischievous twinkled in his eyes. “See how frightened I am of you?”

“You look horrified.”

“Ah, but how would you know? It is far too dark.” It was not. Even from across the cabin, the fire cast enough light to see. Kratos exhaled heavily. It may have been a laugh.

“It is wishful thinking.”

Atreus cackled. The sound transported him back decades, to nights spent laying in the dirt, nothing above them but the stars. When life had been simple. Before he had made so many mistakes.

“You are a disaster.” Kratos’s heart sunk.

“I know.” Without the energy to keep his emotions at bay, his voice dragged with sorrow like a boat along the shore. It was true. Calling him a disaster was being kind. He recognized that Atreus did not mean it as a true insult, but that did not prevent how it stung. Aware of his mistake, Atreus became visibly flustered, twisting free of his grip to smooth his hands down his cheeks to his neck, finally bringing them to rest on his chest.

“I…” He scrambled, flustered, trying to right his previous statement. “That is not what I meant.”

Kratos grunted in the affirmative, squeezing his fingers in way of accepting his apology. Atreus leaned down to kiss his brow, his gratitude evident in the tenderness of it. “Here I am riling you up when we’re supposed to be getting to sleep.”

“We are simply reliving old times,” Kratos said, turning back over so they could resume their previous position. Above him, he heard Atreus chuckle. After he bent to kiss his cheek, Atreus settled once more against his back.

“I suppose we are. Now _shh_. Sleep. Usually, it is me who has to be told to be quiet.”

“Usually? That is generous of you.” He was stalling. He was tired, yet he feared sleep would not find him. It was far easier to pretend as if this were normal, as if Atreus didn’t know the gory details of his past. He’d much rather his time be spent exchanging weak quips then stewing in the quiet torment of his thoughts.

“Kratos.” Atreus played into his parental role. His name was a warning, one that clearly stated that this was not for debate, and he was not to speak again.

Begrudgingly, Kratos admitted the truth. “I cannot.”

“Sleep? Of course you can, it is not hard.” Atreus knew better. Kratos did as well, it was a means to tempt him to express himself in more than a few words. He compiled without complaint.

“I do not _think_ I can.”

Atreus chuckled in the way that made Kratos feel as if he were a child. Lovingly, he brought up a hand to caress his face. His fingertips were cold through his beard. “You must give it time. I will be here until you do.”

Kratos laid still and quiet long enough to fool Atreus into believing he’d fallen asleep. When the fire began to burn low enough for the light in the cabin to dim, Atreus gently pried himself away to tend to it. He did not return.


	3. Chapter 3

Though it did not feel like it, Kratos must have slept. He had no recollection of Atreus returning to bed, yet he had, sitting upright and awake beside him. Kratos turned over to see him more clearly, the motion earning him a weak smile and a gentle touch across his head. “It is still very early. There is time for you to sleep if you wish.” Fatigue pulled at his words, slowing his speech. Dark circles lined his eyes. He had not slept. Guilt riddled the edges of Kratos’s mind, he reached for him without thinking, resting his hand over his thigh. Atreus squeezed his fingers. “I am fine,” he said, as if reading Kratos’s mind. He lifted their hands to press kisses along his knuckles. Kratos did not move, unsure of where they stood.

The early morning lacked its typical birdsong. The fire crackled from across the cabin, the wind clawed at the walls. They seemed to be the only sounds left. Atreus held Kratos’s hand in both of his, head down as he played with his fingers. Kratos allowed it. A welcome distraction, preventing his mind from wandering to dark corners in which he did not want it to go. Though Atreus seemed preoccupied, he did not speak. Kratos worried he had come to a decision in the night. Perhaps he was gathering the courage to ask him to leave? Or was he backpedaling from doing so and contemplating a different course of action?

Finally, Atreus spoke, the preemptive breath he had taken a vice around Kratos’s heart. “You were gone for weeks, and now here you are. What made you come here and tell me everything? The last I asked, it seemed you could not stand to think of your past, let alone speak it. Correct me if I am wrong, but something must have urged you.”

Kratos did not know how to answer. He could not tell the truth. “It was time.” A vague explanation at best. He was unsure if Atreus would accept it or push him to be more specific. Despite keeping his promise to himself, it felt a gamble to inform Atreus of his namesake. He had proven to himself that this was the real Atreus, had trusted him enough to tell him his sins. Beyond his trouble with Odin, the last that remained was to tell him of his son. And then there was Faye. That she had known of his future beyond her and allowed him to give their only son the name of a man she had never met. Was it to serve as a sign from her that Atreus was trustworthy? Though, he supposed, there was a side of the truth he _could_ tell. That he had not been ready to accept a life without him. He had pined long past reason and did not have the self-control to let him go. He lacked the knowledge of how to put that into words.  

Exasperated, Atreus sighed, rubbing his eyes. His grip on Kratos’s hand tightened. “Yes. I understand that. I am asking _why_.”

For a long while, there was silence. Kratos did not know what he could say. It was no simple task to spill his emotions. Atreus could do it easily, he could name what he was feeling and voice it with a grace and efficiency Kratos could only admire. He had always been that way. When they were younger, he had been better at it, following his inspirer’s example, but that had been before the gods had robbed him of his wife and child. Back then, he had been so affectionate. He showered his family in hugs and kisses, spoke openly to them. Told them he loved them, that he missed them. It was strange to know he was still the same man, only changed. He had never kissed his son, even as a babe. Had never properly hugged him, even now. Rarely had he done so with Faye. As far as he could ever tell, she had no quarrel with it, but why would she? It was all she had ever known. This side of him, this new part of him, was something Atreus had not been privy to. It would make things difficult until he either learned to change or Atreus learned to accept it.

Knowing he would have to return home soon, Kratos dredged up words that meant something. He could not leave here without Atreus realizing he was precious to him still. It had taken him a long time to find the words and even longer to say them. “I missed you.”

Atreus's laughter sounded sad. He patted him fondly. “I missed you, too. Everyday. I was afraid you no longer wanted me.” His words brought an ache behind Kratos’s ribs. He pushed himself up to sit with him, the layers of bedding pooling in his lap.

“As was I.”

“You believed I no longer wanted you?” Atreus had made it clear that he wanted him in _every_ manner and was clearly confused by the statement. Kratos was quick to clear the air, the pain in written in his expression unbearable to see.

“No.” It was easier than explaining he hadn't until last night. “I questioned the possibility of your existence.”

Relief smoothed the worried lines from Atreus’s face. “Well, I promise you I am real. Hopefully I have proved that.”

“I understand that now. It seemed...” Kratos’s words trailed as he searched for the correct phrase.

“Too good to be true?” Atreus offered. Kratos nodded.

“Precisely.” There came a moment of lull, which Kratos took as an opportunity to take him in. He was beautiful. Olive skin cast dark in the dim of morning, hair a mess from a night of fighting for sleep. He had just recently shaved, his stubble short and scratchy. Exhaustion carved dark rings under his eyes, but he maintained his usual pleasant demeanor. A sleepless night was nothing for a Spartan. Kratos did not worry for him.

His admiration was cut short as Atreus brought their hands to his chest. Kratos could feel his heartbeat thrumming beneath his fingertips. He became acutely aware of how delicate and temporary life was. The fluttering in his stomach convinced him that this had been the right decision. There was no evil here, nor had there ever been. He would be bettered by this. “Regardless,” began Atreus, “I am proud of you for coming back despite your fears.” It was a ridiculous thing to be proud of. Nevertheless, it was good to hear. He did not dare dispute it.

“I have faced things far greater than a lonely old man in the woods.” The taunt brought on a ghost of a familiar feeling. Of their own accord, Kratos’s lips twitched about the corners. There was no helping or hiding it. Atreus noticed immediately, his expression turning into something tender. Feeling as if it were something he should not see, Kratos turned his head away. Though, in his periphery, he could tell Atreus’s expression had gone from delicate to beaming.

“Ah, there it is. A right improvement,” Atreus joked, laying a careful hand on Kratos’s forearm. His secrets told, Kratos felt no need to pull away.

“That was unkind.”

“I am simply implying you are most handsome when smiling!” Atreus rose onto his knees, reaching to take him by the face. Kratos went willingly, allowing Atreus to turn his head toward him. He was met with a broad smile, Atreus’s brow drawn the way it always had when he played. The sight was enough to twist his insides in a rather pleasant way. “Though I did not foresee the beard making it so hard to tell.”

“Should I shave it?”

“No! No, the beard is perfect.” Atreus pulled him in for a kiss. Kratos huffed through his nose, amused. He was forever grateful for Atreus pretending as if last night had never taken place. “It makes you look like a proper Norseman.”

“It is a comfort that you have not changed. You are still rather superficial.” Atreus spoke like a proper Norseman himself. He had yet to speak a word of Greek since their reunion. Kratos had been too exhausted to ask about it the night before. He would, but for now he rather carry on with their horseplay. If Atreus had been alone this entire time—save for the few encounters he had with men—who had taught him? Another question for another time. It mattered little, and though he preached against curiosity, he found himself unable to help it. He would ask later when such a question would not impose on them enjoying each other’s company. Their light-hearted bantering was something he had missed dearly.

His comment earned a sarcastic laugh from Atreus, a dry _ha-ha-ha._ “Is it such a crime that I only settle for the best?”

“Are you implying that I am the best?” Though he was far from it, there was no point in arguing. Atreus would hear none of it.

“I am implying that you will do until I find someone who fits my standards.”

Kratos chuckled, two short grunts. Atreus fell quiet for a moment, his eyes drawn to the scar on his front. Kratos looked away, shaking off the urge to cover himself. Despite the fire, the room was frigid. In hopes of avoiding the cold and any mention of his confession, Kratos moved to shift off the bed. Atreus spoke, causing him to still and listen.

“There is one thing I still do not understand. Why do you leave? You have no wife, no child. If there is nothing for you to return to, what keeps you from staying here? With me?”

No longer was there room for excuses. Logically, there would be no reason. Any lie he could possibly tell would be painfully obvious. There had been a motivation behind his need to deem Atreus safe and tell him of his past. It had been in preparation to introduce him to his son. Kratos sighed deeply, catching Atreus's attention. Concern etched his features, it was unclear what for. “I have a child.”

“You do?” Atreus lit up, shuffling closer to him to take Kratos's hands in his. “Is it Lysandra's?”

His words brought with them momentary confusion. By Ares's design, he had slaughtered his family in cold blood. There had only ever been Calliope. Then, he realized he had spoken last night of Faye. How she had not given him a child. Atreus had trusted that. “No. Faye's.” As Atreus opened his mouth, Kratos spoke over him, “Last night, I… I was dishonest.” It sounded marginally better than _I lied to you._ “I did not want to—”

“You do not have to explain yourself; that is not what I am concerned with. You have a _child_?”

“Yes.”

“ _Yes_? That is all you have to say? You cannot expect me to be satisfied with only that! Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A son.”

Atreus clapped his hands together. “Wonderful! I always hoped you would have a son.” Kratos had an inkling as to why. He made no mention of it. “How old?”

“Eleven winters.” For once, Kratos cared to elaborate. There were many things to be said about his son. He wished to commend his bravery and wisdom. To tell Atreus how his namesake had surpassed all of his expectations, and how much he had grown and with how little complaint. How his son was a god who was convinced they were good and could do good, could use their power to right wrongs and end cruelty. How he had a compassionate soul beyond Kratos’s understanding for all living creatures. How he had taught him how to be a father again and to believe he was capable of leaving his past behind. That his own humanity was not all but lost. Instead, Atreus spoke ahead of him, his voice an odd blend of sorrow and tenderness.

“Oh, goodness,” he said. “It must be hard for him, losing his mother.”

“It has not been easy.” His son had been strong. He had cried, lashed out, mourned, but he had done well. Though he needed to be reminded occasionally, he had retained his focus on their journey. To him, Faye had been all he had. It was understandable.

For a moment Atreus was thoughtful. Then, he smiled. "At least he has a fine father.” At his words, Kratos could no longer look him in the eye.

Atreus could not have spoken more wrongly. He knew nothing of their relationship. It was foolish of him to assume. Kratos supposed it best to tell him now, rather than let him realize later. “It is more complicated than that. I was not present until after his mother's passing.” When no answer came, he continued speaking in order to spare himself any judgment Atreus may pass. “He is brave. Cunning. I had my reasons.” Looking to Atreus again, Kratos found that his smile had gone.

“Reasons to not raise your own child?”

“As I said, it was complicated. I provided—one of us had to hunt.”

“You never took him with you?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“I was… afraid. I killed my father. I am everything I do not want him to be. I did not know if I could raise him to be better.”

“You raised a daughter, did you not?”

“Her mother reared her. I was at war, Atreus.”

Atreus looked down as if he were ashamed of his forgetfulness. It was obvious. Spartan men had little time for their children. “At least he is still young. You have some time to make up for your wrongs.” He offered his words delicately, trying to provide comfort. Kratos ignored them in favor of changing the subject.

“He is just as we used to speak.”

“Then I see he took his mother’s looks and her brains.”

Kratos huffed in good humor. “And I hope he will not take after your sense of humor.”

Atreus laughed, and then quietened, watching him with a severe fondness. Still, Kratos could not discern what he had done to deserve any of this. “I cannot believe you have a child. Sounds as if you could not have asked for a finer son.”

“Do you not wish to know his name?”

“Oh, I— Of course, I want to know his name! Is it of these lands?”

“No, it is Greek.”

“Is it really? That is a surprise. I figured you would have strayed from that. I… suppose it is safe to assume that you did not name him after a god.” Affection welled in his chest. His son had said something almost identical. Atreus took his retrospective silence as a lack of response. He nudged Kratos gently to ensure he held his attention. “If you want me to guess, I have none.”

“Atreus.”

“Mm?”

“ _Atreus.”_

“What is it?” Kratos did not speak. He waited. It would be far more rewarding if Atreus was able to put it together for himself. Which he did, after a short while. It read true in his face the moment realization set in. “That is his name?”

“That is his name.”

Atreus’s mouth fell open. He snapped it shut with a click of teeth and promptly shoved Kratos hard in the shoulder. “You did not!” Though he seemed displeased, Kratos could only see joy when he looked at him. His smile was wide.

“I did.”

“Why would you name him that? You cursed him. You _cursed him_ with my name. I cannot believe my ears.”

“Why is it a curse?”

He shoved Kratos again, less forceful than before. “For he will be as soft as I! That makes for no Spartan, why do you suppose I am here?”

“That is good news, then. He is not a Spartan, nor will he ever be. He was raised far from our customs.”

“Then that is proof that you are at least an adequate father. That was no way to raise a child.”

“At least?”

Atreus simply laughed and shook him good-naturedly by the shoulder. “At least.” He did not have to tell Kratos that he was proud. He already knew, the feeling radiated from him like heat from a fire. “So when do I get to meet this Atreus of yours?”

“Now, if you wish. He is at home, asleep. We can leave whenever you are ready.”

Without further prompting, Atreus was up on his feet and stuffing a leg into his trousers. “Then up you get. I cannot believe you— _naming him_ after me.” He seemed flustered, spurred into a near frantic rush. The last Kratos could recall him behaving this way was when he had first gotten word of his promotion to captain. Calmly, Kratos slipped out of bed to dress, leaving the furs in a discarded heap on the mattress.

“And who else would you expect me to name him after?”

Atreus rose to join him, raking his hands through his hair. “I'm sure there is someone. Did your wife not have any ideas?”

“She did,” Kratos said, fashioning his belt. “I wanted your name for him. You have many good qualities I hoped would be instilled in him.”

“Like what exactly?” Atreus laughed weakly as if he could not believe what he was hearing.

“Goodness.” No longer could he say honesty, faithfulness, or loyalty. He could only hope that Atreus would prove himself worthy of those characteristics again in time.

“You say ‘many,’ and list only one.”

“You will need to give me time to think of more.” No spite resided in his tone, the words spoken only as an innocent jab.

Stilling with only one arm through his tunic, Atreus smacked him on the arm. “And you say that I am the cruel one.”

“Humanity.”

“Oh, that is spectacular. Thank you,” Atreus said, his sarcasm not lost on either of them. Then he spoke again, more sincere. “Truly. Thank you. I could not be more flattered. Does he know of me?”

Kratos answered from across the room, situating Leviathan across his back, “Naturally.”

“May I ask what you told him?” Atreus paused lacing his boots to ask, perched on the side of the bed.

“That I named him for a great soldier who knew of happiness. That I admired him for it, and his memory brought comfort long after battle claimed his life.”

Atreus smiled and shook his head. “You’re going to have quite the surprise for him, won’t you?”

“I suppose that will be the case.”

Dressed for the elements and armed with his spear, Atreus stomped out the fire in the hearth before following Kratos out into the snow. He tugged his cloak tighter around himself, fiddling with the tie in the front to keep it closed. They walked in silence, Kratos in the lead. After some time, Atreus fell in step at his side, using his dory as a walking stick. Conditioned to respect his weaponry, Kratos could not help but cringe.

“The boy does not know of everything I have told you. He knows enough. Keep that in mind.”

“Of course,” Atreus said, taken aback. Kratos trusted him already not to share gory details with his son, but hearing his agreement brought him peace.

“And he does not know about us.”

Atreus looked to him with a furrowed brow. He lifted a hand palm-up in a meaningless gesture. “I thought you told him of me?”

“He believes us to be friends and nothing more. It is to stay that way.”

“I—” Atreus began in a harsh tone, sounding insulted. Kratos knew he had run to live openly and how he wished. It would bring his son nothing but distress to see his father move on so quickly after his mother. It was temporary. They would tell him when Kratos deemed him ready. “I understand.”

In an attempt to remedy Atreus’s dampened mood, Kratos said, “He will know. Eventually.”

It earned him the outcome he had hoped. Atreus relaxed and smoothed his cloak as if it were ruffled feathers. Seeming pleased with the compromise, he said, “I think that is in his best interest. The poor boy has been through enough already.”

Though he had effectively lightened Atreus’s mood, his request set an uncomfortable silence between them. The walk was already miserable enough, the wind sapping their warmth. Atreus sniffed, rubbing at his ruddy nose and cheeks in attempt to bring feeling back into them. Unable to take the quiet between them, Kratos asked, “You no longer speak Greek. Why?”

“I suspect for much of the same reason as you. No one here speaks it. It was a dead language as far as I was concerned.” Atreus hefted his dory onto his shoulder. “I do my best not to so much as _think_ in Greek anymore. I fear if I do, then I will forget the tongue of this land.”

“If you have been alone for all this time, who taught you?”

“Ah, I should have known you would ask that. When I first came to these lands, I stumbled upon a village. I stayed there for quite some time. Its people taught me how to speak. It was a blessing, truly! I moved along to make a home of my own, returning for trade and, ah... _company_. The last I went, they had all gone. It was abandoned, I found nothing to suggest they were attacked or driven away. It was quite strange.”

Kratos’s mind offered up the words _The_ _Desolation._ Many people were fleeing to escape it. As he had told his son weeks ago, it did not concern them. For that same reason, he would not tell Atreus either. He was not sure how to even begin to explain it, regardless.

The rest of their walk was spent in silence.

As they came upon the house in the low light of dawn, Atreus gazed about, familiarizing himself with it. “Oh, how lovely.”

Ignoring the compliment, Kratos lead him to the door and stopped. He dropped his voice low as not to alert the head or his son of their company. “I will go inside and handle the boy. I will not be long.” After Baldur, he did not want his son to be startled by another stranger showing up at their door. Atreus nodded in understanding and stepped aside to lean against the house. Kratos reached to push open the door before stilling. There were many details he had yet to disclose, notably those surrounding their journey. “A friend is staying with us. He is a severed head. Do not mind him.” Paying Atreus’s sudden concern no mind, Kratos shut the door behind him to put an end to his stammering.

The house was cold, the fire reduced to embers. He tended to it quickly before rousing his son out of bed. The boards creaked underfoot as he knelt. Instead of trying to shake him awake or speak to him, Kratos dug through the furs until he found his face. Atreus squinted up at him with bleary eyes.

“It is time to get up.”

“But it’s still dark out.”

“The sun is rising. Up.”

“What’s going on?”

Mimir cracked open an eye to watch them, which Kratos ignored, jerking his chin over his shoulder. “I will explain when you are up.”

Atreus sat up, pushing his furs off his lap. “Is everything okay?” He sounded nervous. Kratos supposed he should cease trying to bait him out of bed.

“Yes. Do you remember when I told you about your name? Where it came from?”

“Yeah, of course. Atreus of Sparta. Your, uh, friend, I guess? I don’t know if you have friends.”

“We were very good friends.”

“Um. Okay. Why are you asking me about all of this?”

Kratos decided to confess his shortcomings first. Once he told him the actual reason he had woken him, he surely would not sit still long enough to hear the rest of what his father had to say. “The night I did not come home. I said I was lost. I was not.”

His son’s face scrunched in confusion, betrayal shined in his eyes. Kratos could hardly stand to look at him. “You didn’t come home on purpose. So you meant to stay out? Why didn’t you at least tell me?”

“If it is of any comfort, I had every intention of returning home. While you have slept I have left twice more. It is behind us.” Mimir opened his other eye.

“You… you left last night, didn’t you?” Atreus’s shoulders curled inwards. He was devastated. Kratos rose from his haunches to sit on his bed, and Atreus pulled his legs to his chest to make room for him. Trying to console, Kratos took his shoulder firmly. Despite the fact that he had yet to give a response, his son knew his answer.

“Yes. And I will not again.” Atreus turned his head away and did not look at him until he had finished. Hopeful, he gazed up at his father. His eyes spoke everything that he would not. Kratos felt shame like he never had before.

“Promise me you won’t leave again.”

“You have my word. You will understand when I am finished.”

“So why did you bring up Atreus of Sparta?”

“I am getting to that. I found him.”

“Oh. Like… his body?” Disappointment riddled his voice. Before he could offer any condolences, Kratos made himself more clear.

“No. He is very much alive.”

  
“He’s _alive_?” In his surprise, Atreus had raised his voice to a near shout. Kratos made an amused noise. ”Wait. Did you just laugh at me?”

“I—”

Atreus cut off his sentence, dropping his voice as deep as he could in mockery. “ _Do not laugh._ I know. But you totally just did.” He had. There was no way around it. Kratos said nothing and Atreus picked up the slack in their conversation, asking a different question. “I thought you said he died in war. How is he here?”

“Unable to find a body, we assumed him dead. He fled here.”

“He came _here?_ He’s here? Where?”

“Yes. His home is not far. He is outside, waiting. He is looking forward to seeing you.”

Excited at the prospect of not only meeting a new person but the man he had been named after, Atreus scrambled to get out of bed. “I get to meet him now?”

“Only once you are dressed.”

While his son dressed, Kratos readied meat for their breakfast. He would have to feed three mouths instead of two, but Atreus had been kind enough to do so for him the first night he had stayed. It was only polite to return the favor. He found a cut of venison in the crawlspace large enough for them. It would be by no means an impressive meal, but it would do. As he always had to with this weather, he laid it out by the pit to thaw. As he turned away, he caught Mimir’s eyes with his own.

“So,” the head began, sounding smug, “that’s where you’ve been running off to!”

Before he could say anything else, Kratos put an end to it. “Enough.” His voice was firm and sharp. Atreus stopped wrapping the pants of his trousers to look up.

“I’m just saying it’s interesting!”

“Mimir, you knew?” Betrayal and shock danced in the boy’s voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was only an inkling, lad,” said the head, by way of apology. He had seen. Kratos was not sure why he bothered with the lie. He also did not care.

“It is nothing and you will not speak of it again.”

“Overstepped, yeah?”

Though Kratos could not recall a time where Atreus of Sparta had been mentioned in front of the head, his talk with his son had given him enough detail. He was clever beyond imagination, already had he deduced too much about the extent of their relationship. Kratos did not expect him to inform the boy of it. If he had misplaced his trust, then he would deal with the repercussions later. For now, his attention was being diverted by his son, who trotted across the room to him, dressed in his usual garb. ”I’m ready. Can I meet him now?”

For a long moment, Kratos considered him, then smoothed his hand over his head in an attempt to calm his hair. The boy, recovering from initial surprise, swatted at him. “Can I go?” His voice pitched into a whine that Kratos would have punished on any normal occasion.

“Let me bring him in. It is not as mild as when I brought you hunting.” With that, Kratos moved to the front of the house. He found Atreus outside where he had left him, shivering. Snow peppered his hair and clumped in the fur of his cloak. The weather had worsened. Kratos made a mental note to clear their roof before the weight caused it to cave.

Atreus smiled in greeting. When he spoke, it was through chattering teeth. “Ah, is he ready?”

Kratos grunted an affirmative, allowing him inside. He peered around, presumably for Atreus, though Mimir caught his eye first, sitting on the table. He froze for a moment before remembering his manners. “Ah, you must be the, ah… the head Kratos told me of.” With no hand to shake, it was rather amusing to watch him struggle to introduce himself.

“Aye, that’s me! Can’t confuse me for anyone else in this house, that’s for sure. I’m Mimir, the smartest man alive!” At that, Atreus looked back at Kratos, it was clear in his expression that he thought their bodiless companion to be quite delusional. Though humored by his reaction, Kratos offered no guidance. Atreus, just as lost as he was, turned back to face Mimir, who continued with his introduction. “But, please, call me Mimir, only the big lug calls me ‘head.’ I find it quite rude, actually.”

"Atreus. A pleasure to meet you." Atreus chuckled, somewhat uncomfortable, and looked away to see the boy standing in the middle of the house. Kratos, familiar with his son’s social nature, expected him to speak first. He did not. His son seemed suddenly nervous, lips pressed tightly together. Atreus, undeterred, crouched in front of him. “And you must be Atreus.”

“I can’t believe I’m getting to meet you,” blurted the boy.

Eyes alight with elation, Atreus was quick to agree. “And I cannot believe I am getting to meet you!”

“Father told me you were dead—”

“Boy,” Kratos said, as if the statement were impolite. It earned only a laugh from Atreus.

“There is nothing to scold him over, it is the truth— and not so terribly different from the first thing you said to me, either.” He took a moment to look the boy over, smile brighter than Kratos had ever seen it. He would not be surprised if this was an elaborate dream. He waited to wake cold and alone in bed. It did not come. “You are already so big! When your father told me how old you were, I was prepared to see you as small as he was at your age.”

“Really? It’s hard to think of Father ever being small.”

“He was even smaller than I for quite the number of years!"

His son looked to him in disbelief. “It is true,” Kratos said. Able to accept it as truth, the boy looked back at Atreus.

“How long have you known each other? Father said you were a Spartan soldier and that you fought together. Do… do they make children fight wars in Sparta?”

“Oh, goodness no.” Atreus waved his hand as if the idea was ridiculous. “We trained as children. That was how we met. Your father was only a little older than you when he was assigned to me.” Kratos, against his better judgment, glanced to Mimir, who watched them quietly with knowing eyes. Allegedly, he held vast knowledge of not only these lands but of those beyond. It was likely he knew exactly of what Atreus spoke and what it entailed beyond simple combat training.

“Assigned for what?”

“To learn! I taught him combat. To control his temper and have patience with his blows. To find strategy.”

“Sounds like what Father teaches me.”

“Then I see my lessons did not fall upon deaf ears.” Atreus turned to look at Kratos over his shoulder, who perceived it as a sign to come forward. He rested his hand on his son's shoulder. It was surreal to watch them interact. Atreus stood and offered Kratos a tender smile. He placed a hand on his arm. The creases around his eyes made deep with joy, his touch lingered as he passed by. Despite shrugging him off, Kratos felt the corner of his lip pull, something warm and ticklish settling in his belly. He welcomed it gladly. Atreus took a few moments to wander around, taking in their home and examining the contents of their shelves. Kratos had a seat at their table, his son did not follow. Instead, he crept up to Atreus. “Um. Atreus? Can I ask you something?”

Immediately, Atreus turned him, smiling as if Zeus himself had descended to speak to him. “Of course! Ask away. I have no secrets.” That was not exactly true, but Kratos could not correct him now. He trusted him not to tell the boy anything he wasn't to know.

“Why did you come here to Midgard? Did you and Father end up here by coincidence? You both left Sparta and had the _whole world_ to decide from.”

“Ah, that is a very good question!” Nervously, he made eye contact with Kratos from across the room. He broke it quickly to return his full attention to the boy, stooping over with his hands braced on his thighs. “We used to speak of going North,” he said, tone as if he were about to launch into some grandiose story. Kratos, hoping he would be dishonest, felt his heart kick up. He breathed deeply as Atreus continued. “In Greece, there is no snow. We always wanted to see it for ourselves. I suppose for the both of us, going North was natural since we dreamed of it often.” A stretch of the truth. It snowed in the mountains. It would do, regardless.

“Wait,” said the boy, voice pitched the way it did when he did not understand something, “I thought you were from Sparta?”

“I am?” Atreus spoke it like a question, his brow quirked.

“You said Greece just then.”

“Oh. I suppose I did! Has your father not spoken of it?” He spared a glance to Kratos, who gave no reaction, and then dropped into a crouch in front of the boy. “The land we are from is called Greece. Sparta is a state _within_ Greece.”

“So it’s like Konùnsgard in Midgard?”

Atreus fell silent for a moment and scratched the stubble at his chin. “I… suppose? I have lived here longer than your father and yet I do not know much of these lands.” He laughed quietly in embarrassment.

“Maybe I could teach you sometime? Father has maps from our journey.” His son spoke cautiously, as if the request would turn Atreus away like it often did his father.

“Your journey?”

“To spread my mother’s ashes. She died.”

“I…” Atreus glanced between the boy and Kratos. His brow drew. “Yes, I know. Your father told me. She seemed very special. Though I heard nothing of this journey.”

As his son took a breath to tell him, Kratos interrupted. If Atreus knew of it, then he would know of the trouble in which they had found themselves. He would rather inform him another time when they were alone. “And you will continue to hear nothing of it.”

“Excuse me?” Atreus said, offended, hurt to have another secret withheld from him. Kratos did not blame him, yet he showed no evidence of pity. He would know in time. He stood again, slowly against his protesting joints. “And why might that be?”

“Father is—”

“Private, yes, I am aware. I practically raised him.”  

An uncomfortable silence permeated the house. Kratos, to give himself something to do, cut the venison to sear. It had not thawed completely, but he cared little. With him no longer occupying the table, Atreus sat, the boy at his heels. Kratos kept his distance, allowing them have space to speak amongst themselves. It was also partly to avoid Atreus. His secrecy had upset him, and he had no intentions of dealing with it today.

After a short while, they began to converse. Kratos carried on with preparing breakfast, his back to them. He listened intently. Perhaps there would come a time when he would not have to be so preoccupied with the state of his secrets. He looked forward to it.

“So,” his son began, “father told me that all Spartans trained from birth.”

Atreus responded with only warmth, no remnant of the edge he had carried earlier. Kratos imagined that this was not evidence of forgiveness. He simply did not blame the boy for his father's covertness. “We did! All infants were accessed at birth by the state.”

“Accessed?”

“For strength. Those that were deemed weak or sick were to be cast out on the hillside.” Atreus knew nothing of the boy’s childhood. He had been born ill. This was one of the less ideal parts of Spartan culture to share. Atreus, for whatever reason, had felt the compulsion to do so. Having already been said, it was needless to intervene now. Kratos could only hope it would not worry his son too much. His life had been carefully sheltered from these practices, with the goal of sparing him entirely. After all, they hailed from a land which no longer existed. All it had prided itself on gone. It served no purpose to speak of other than wasting breath. It seemed Atreus felt differently on that.

“They just threw them out? But they’re _babies._ ” His son’s exclamation was made in horror. Kratos was unsurprised.

“I know, but it was how we thrived. Only the strongest of us survived to fight. There _was_ hear-say that some of them were saved by strangers.”

“What about the ones that weren’t?”

“The exposure killed them.” Though he spoke matter-of-factly, Atreus’s voice carried a hint of disgust. Despite his eternal love for his birthplace, leaving brought light to some of its more heinous customs. It had been hard to judge when it was all you had ever known.

“That’s sad,” the boy said quietly. “They didn’t mean to be born sick.” He spoke from experience, though neither of them told Atreus that.

“I know. It is hard to understand looking in from the outside, but the elders had their reasons. It worked, and so they did not change.”

“Can you tell me more about how you met Father?”

“Of course. I suppose I should explain it from the beginning. In Sparta there is… there _was_ something called the agōgē. Did your father ever speak of it?” Kratos watched his son shake his head, then returned to the meat, using his fingers to flip each cut on the grate. “It was meant to train young boys. We were all taken from our homes after seven winters,” Atreus said, his voice taking on a tone Kratos recognized. Similar to the one he used to tell stories when they had been young. A feeling of nostalgia welled inside him that Kratos could not ignore.

“Wait. Seven? That’s crazy. Did you get to go back home?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Wow… I can’t imagine leaving home forever _now._ ” Hearing his son, Kratos could not help but to silently agree. Raising a child outside of Sparta had given him a very different perspective on child rearing. Seeing how small and defenseless his son had been made him wonder how he had survived himself, nevermind those like Atreus who were of complete mortal descent.

“It is strange how places can be so different, isn’t it?” His voice sounded parental. Guiding, nurturing. He continued. “After we were taken, we began training immediately. We learned history and literature, how to hunt and fight. After a few years, we were stripped of our clothes and shoes. We had to sleep outdoors year round until we were grown enough to enter the military.”

“You had to sleep outside? Weren’t you cold?”

“Sometimes. I think we were all grateful for Sparta’s mild weather.”

“Oh. Well, what happened when you went into the military?”

“We were housed in barracks, finished the last of our training, and went to war. Soon after, we were expected to marry and father children so the cycle could continue.”

“It sounds like Sparta fought a lot.”

Mimir chuckled darkly, speaking up. “Oh, you haven’t the slightest, little brother.”

“At least you didn’t have to sleep outside anymore,” the boy said lamely, sounding unsure of how to respond the head’s comment. He did not have to, as Kratos called for him immediately after.

“Atreus,” he said, by habit.

Both his son and Atreus answered, the boy's "Yeah?" caught in Atreus's "What is it?" This would surely be a problem—one Kratos felt a fool for not foreseeing—though, he was happy to find a solution. Luckily, it was simple.

“The boy,” he clarified. “Come here.”

As he always did, he allowed his son to oversee the seasoning. He did not miss the loving gaze Atreus cast their way from over the table. Kratos looked between him and his son and rested a hesitant hand on his shoulder. Already, this felt commonplace. The sense of family that had died with Faye began to settle back into the house. Once he was pleased with his work, the boy carried their meal to the table, where they all began to eat with their fingers.

“Atreus,” his son said, around a mouthful of venison. “Earlier you said Sparta ‘ _was.’_ What happened to it?”

“From what I’ve heard? All its gods went bonkers,” Mirmir said, offering supplemental information. Kratos was thankful that it was not damning. “Blew it to bits. Dreadful place, in my humble opinion, and the food was even worse! I think it no real loss. Losing the rest of Greece, however, was a bit of a shame.” The word _gods_ drew the boy’s focus to his father, likely unsure if Atreus knew of their godhood. Kratos said nothing to him, keeping his eyes down on his meal.

Atreus glanced to Kratos as well, his expression pinched with unease. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a knuckle and swallowed before he spoke. “That was long after I came here, so we will trust the smartest man alive to know the answer.”

"How did you know it was destroyed then?"

"Your father informed me."

"Oh." Despite it being obvious that he itched to know more, the boy attempted to steer their conversation onto its original path. “You didn't really finish earlier. When I asked about how you met Father.”

“Oh, I suppose I did not. Well, around the time when we were made to sleep outside, all boys were expected by the elders to request, ah…” Atreus trailed off, searching for the word, he must have known no equivalent in this tongue, as he finished with the word in Greek. The sound of a foreign tongue had the boy sitting up straight in his stool.

“An inspirer,” Kratos supplied, “I suppose is closest.”

“Thank you,” Atreus said, his voice distant as if trying to memorize the word. “Each boy would be assigned an _inspirer_ by the elders who oversaw our training. That is what I told you about earlier. I was a few years ahead of your Father, and I was to take him on as my pupil. There is not much more to tell! It is a simple story. What else would you like to know?”

“Um… Father said you were a great warrior. Were you stronger than him?”

Atreus tossed his head back and laughed. “I do not know about that, but I was far more patient! I cannot recall a time that we sparred where I did not knock him down at least once. Can you?”

Kratos grumbled an intelligible response that had Atreus laughing again. He reached across the table to pat his arm sympathetically. Between the sound and the contact, Kratos's stomach fluttered. He figured it worthwhile to supply him an actual answer. “I had been raised to believe a Spartan never let his back hit the ground. Atreus taught me otherwise.”

His son looked to him with eyes wide, clearly not expecting to hear his father contribute to the conversation. Kratos leveled him with his usual stoic expression and the boy turned his attention back to Atreus, who spoke next. “Your father was very headstrong. I'd like to believe I helped him with that, but I do not think that is the case.” He turned to him, demeanor sweet, eyes lingering a bit longer than Kratos would have liked. It was important to him they appeared to both the boy and the head as nothing more than old friends. Already it was proving to be difficult.

His son licked his fingers clean and wiped them on his trousers. “You said you've been here a long time. Longer than Father. When did you come here?”

“Not long after I was put into the army. Your father stayed much longer than I.” Kratos felt apprehensive at his choice of words. Earlier he had mentioned that Sparta forced them to marry, it was only logical that if Kratos had remained there as an adult, he would have been expected to father a child. Thankfully, his son did not ask. Perhaps he was afraid of the answer he would receive. “I left because I failed to realize how barbaric Sparta was until I saw war for myself. I did not wish to kill any longer, so I fled during battle. If they found me, I would surely never see another sunrise, so I ran as far north as my legs would carry.”

“Mm,” the boy hummed in acknowledgment. Fearful of more specific questions and seeing as they had all finished their meal, Kratos stood, tipping his head toward the door.

Atreus took note and said, “Ah, I figure it best I head home. I'm sure you two— you _three_ have things to get done. As do I.”

“You don't have to go,” the boy said, his upset straining his voice into a whine.

“He speaks wisely,” said Kratos. ”And we will see him soon.”

“Yes, of course, we all have much time to make up for.”

“You can come over whenever you want! Right, Father?” The boy looked up to Kratos, who nodded once. If his son had extended this kind of offer to anyone else, he would have been infuriated. However, he did not mind. Atreus was more than welcome to seek their company whenever he pleased.

After much persuasion from his son, they walked Atreus halfway home. He accepted Kratos's arm to shake, then knelt in the snow in front of the boy. They hugged briefly, then Atreus held him at arm's length. “You two come see me anytime you wish.”

“We will!” said Atreus, his voice chiming with excitement. He looked back to Kratos. “Right?”

“Of course.”

Atreus stood. If they were alone Kratos would have kissed him. Unfortunately, he could not. Perhaps soon, provided they found privacy from not only his child but the head as well. That would likely pose a complication, living in such a full house. “I will be seeing you two,” Atreus told them. They parted ways. They turned back east and walked in silence, the only noise the crunch of their steps and his son's chattering teeth. It had not been but a moment before the head spoke up.

“Oh, he'll be seeing a _lot_ more of your da’, that's for sure.” Kratos felt his blood flush as cold as the snow beneath his boots. He tightened his fists in order to prevent himself from giving the head a good smack. By now, he thought his wishes would be rather obvious. He did not want his son to know of this. Not with Faye's passing still so recent. She had been Atreus's world, and he would be devastated to know that his father had moved on and to a man no less. He was unsure if Atreus had even heard of men who loved other men. While it was not uncommon in Greece, all he had known was the love between his mother and father. Had Faye ever mentioned it in a story? Kratos wracked his brain, thinking something familiar would be an excellent teaching tool if he could not hide this. However, his distress was in vain. The meaning of the comment had been completely lost on his son. Kratos struggled to recall a time he felt so fortunate.

“Uh… yeah. Why wouldn’t he be? He just told us to come see him.”

“Oh, such innocence. Isn’t that adorable, brother?” The head gave off smugness like stink. If he had a neck, Kratos would have strangled him.

“I don't get it,” Atreus complained, looking to his father for guidance. His eyes, big and blue just as his mother’s were, brought him no aid.

“There is nothing to get,” said Kratos. “I believe the witch's magic to be wearing off. Perhaps it is time we leave the head for the wolves.”

“Well! Forget I said anything.”

They had traveled quite some way before anyone spoke again. “I’m glad you and Mom didn’t leave me on a hill when I was sick.”

The last thing Kratos wanted to be doing was disclosing more details about his homeland. The boy had gotten a taste earlier and now he was curious. This was also an understandable worry for him to have. Kratos did his best to clarify. “In Sparta, parents did not have much of a say. Here, it is different. Do not let it bother you.” Before the boy could ask him further on it, he changed the subject. “Did you enjoy his company?”

Atreus’s tone shifted immediately into something more cheerful. “I did! He’s really nice and he seems like he actually wants to talk to me. I bet he’ll tell me anything about Sparta I ask. I know you don’t want me to learn, but it’s as much a part of me as here.”

“I suppose you have a point.” Kratos did not look down at him, instead keeping his eyes open for any signs of wildlife. If the woods provided any opportunity for a meal, he would take it without hesitation.

“I know I said I was glad you named me Atreus, but now I’m _really_ glad.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. Can we see him again soon?”

Kratos made an affirmative noise and laid a hand on Atreus’s back, keeping him at his side. Though there were still secrets he harbored, and though it was stressful to depend on everyone’s fidelity, he was pleased with how this morning had gone. They had no time to go on a hunt now, but he would have enough light to clear the snow from the roof before dinner. Overall, it had been a good day. One he was still having trouble accepting as truth. Kratos found his mood gravitating to something akin to happiness. It had been too long since he had felt it.

“Why were you nervous?”

“Huh?”

“When I brought him inside, you were nervous. Why?”

“Oh. I guess because I have his name. I want him to be proud of that. I was just scared of making the wrong first impression, I guess.”

“I see.”

“I can’t believe I actually got to meet him. You sounded like you were really sure he was dead…” The boy trailed, as if pondering over Atreus while he was still fresh in his mind. After a brief pause, he added, “I really do like him, but he talks kind of weird.” The accent, Kratos realized belatedly. Atreus still had one. Those they had met on their journey had been from the same land and had therefore spoken largely similar, save Mimir. And though Atreus had a deep fascination with languages, he did not have much exposure to them. Before he could find the words to explain, Mimir stepped into their conversation.

“That’s the Greek in him, m’lad! They were all a wee bit strange in my opinion.” While it was not exactly what Kratos was planning on telling him, it would do.

They spent the rest of their walk listening to Atreus speak fondly of the man he had been named after. Kratos’s heart felt lighter than it had in many years.

~

Kratos had survived his first rounds of sparring with metal-tipped spears. Others were not so lucky. Atreus had been allowed to watch him on his first turn, cheering him on in the crowd of his herd. Kratos had not had the chance to speak with him after or since. Now, several days later, he found himself training with him, and though he had performed well, it earned him no leeway. As always, Atreus was hard on him. Quick on his feet and deceptively strong. By the end of it, Kratos’s knees were bloody from falling, his lip busted. He brushed the dirt from himself without complaint after accepting a hand up.

“You did well today,” Atreus told him, still trying to catch his breath. Kratos mopped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He felt the grit of dirt smear against his skin. He had many holes to sew.

“Did I?” He was starting to hold his own against Atreus, though he did not draw blood on him this time, he fell much less than usual.

“You always do well. So, yes, I would say so.” Atreus laughed. The thrill that ran down Kratos’s spine could either be from the compliment or the sight of his smile. He did not know. He did not want to know. They fought to die. It was a waste of time and energy to harbor emotions toward fellow soldiers. Friendship was a distraction, as was grief.

“But am I improving?” Kratos asked, voice hard with intensity. He wanted to be better, and though he was nowhere near where he wished to be, it was important to him that Atreus knew he was at least trying.

“Are you practicing?”

Kratos mulled over his inquiry for a moment, believing it a loaded question. Unsure of what Atreus wanted from him, he gave the obvious answer. “Yes.”

If Atreus’s grin was anything to go by, he had responded correctly. Kratos looked away, to where another pair of boys were practicing several yards away. The clang of metal shields rang dully along the breeze. “Then you are improving. Even if it does not seem like it, you are. That is what practice is for, is it not?” Despite his eyes being elsewhere, Kratos listened with rapt attention. Atreus sighed. “Even for the best Spartans, there is room for improvement.” When still Kratos gave no indication that he had heard, Atreus shook his head. “I look forward to the day you begin to heed my lessons. Until then, why don’t you come with me for a little while longer?” Kratos turned to him in time to catch his gesture toward the woods. His stomach flopped, wondering if Atreus planned to replicate the evening they met. A nervous excitement filled him. It had felt good, and they had yet to do it since.

Instead, they simply sat side by side on the ground. Atreus made no move or mention of it. Eventually, Kratos felt the tension ease from his muscles. “How long until I am a better fighter than you?”

Atreus laughed and clapped him on the back. Suddenly, Kratos felt childish for asking. He prodded a hole in his robes, his stitching from days ago unraveling. Perhaps there was more he was in need of practicing than combat. “There will always be someone better than you. Stronger. Smarter. It is best you accept that now.”

“That is not my question. I am not asking if I will be better than all the others. Will I be better than _you_?”

“I think it is best you keep in mind I am a few years your senior. It is likely I will always be a bit more wise and grown than you are.”

“You are not that much older,” Kratos protested. He still did not understand why he was paired with someone so close to him in age. He would not deny Atreus’s skill, but he was sure there were older soldiers available to instruct him. They would have more experience, though Atreus acted as if that did not matter. Kratos had a feeling that he was going to make a habit of throwing his age around as if it qualified him for anything _._ Already it was annoying.

“Sure,” Atreus said in half-hearted agreement, “but it is something, is it not? The elders paired us for a reason, you cannot tell me you do not trust their methods.”

“I do.” Of course he did. He had to. There was nothing else for him but this, Atreus and the agōgē. He had no option but to follow the elders’ command. If they wanted his inspirer to be Atreus, regardless of their proximity in age, then there was nothing either of them could do to change it. He plucked at the blades of grass tickling his shins, uncaring for admitting defeat so easily.

“Then out of everyone it was me they saw fit to teach. So does my age really matter?”

“I thought I would be getting a man.” Most pairs had much more of a gap in age than did they, boys assigned to men, unmarried and vicious. It was true in his herd. The youngest inspirer assigned to any of them was Atreus. He understood that ability played a role in selection, but how did the elders gloss over his personality? He was soft and emotional. Sparta was no place for the sort. He did well brandishing a spear and shield, but could he kill?

“Is that disappointment I hear?” Wit crept into Atreus’s voice. He shifted onto his knees to face Kratos, who met his smirk with a glower.

“If you expect the worst, then you are never disappointed.” It was a common mentality among the camps. Kratos found it hard to believe Atreus still resisted it at his age. The state had broken them between the rigorous training and annual floggings. No good came to them save for small victories in the sparring ring. Atreus had suffered at the hands of the elder's longer than he. It was only a matter of time.

Delight glittered in Atreus’s eyes. They were dark yet somehow retained a sense of life. Distantly, Kratos wondered if seeing true battle would change that. “Oh, but you are because you did not! What makes it so that I am not a man in your eyes?”

Kratos shrugged, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. This conversation was pointless, yet something he could not name egged him to reply. “You are still a child.”

Atreus tipped his head toward him in gesture, his grin turning wry and lopsided. “You are one to talk about being a child.” His eyes drifted up to Kratos’s forehead and he brought his hand to his mouth to lick his thumb. Kratos did not so much as flinch as he began to scrub at the dirt. “Am I not almost grown?”

The act reminded him much of his mother. Too old to let Atreus play parent with him, Kratos ducked out of his reach. “No.”

Relentless, Atreus’s hand followed, setting to work on a smudge by his mouth. Kratos scowled at him. Atreus gave no indication that he noticed or cared, instead he asked, “How come? I will be in a few short years.”

Kratos did not humor him with an answer. Atreus would talk himself into a circle if he allowed it. He had explained himself enough. Atreus was a child. A man would have more experience. His reasoning ran no deeper than that. After a few agonizing minutes, Atreus realized he was never going to receive a reply. He sighed and turned away. They sat, listening to distant shouting and the clinking of spear against shield. A warm breeze mussed the leaves overhead as a mother would her child’s hair. The peace, as it always was, was broken by Atreus. Kratos wanted so badly to ask if he ever grew tired of the sound of his own voice.

“Do you ever talk for fun?”

“No.”

“There is no evil in conversation. Are you not lonely? I think you’ve spoken more to me than anyone here. Did you never speak with your brother just to do so?” Atreus rambled, though his voice was calm and measured.

If they were not going to _do_ anything, then Kratos found no reason to stay here. He had better ways to spend his time. Like _practicing,_ strengthening his skills and instincts like the rest of his heard was right now. “I am not lonely,” he said harshly, “There is no use of making friends only to lose them. I do not intend to waste my time with mourning.”

Atreus became pensive. He rubbed his chin. When he looked back to Kratos, his lips were pursed. “That is a rather sad life to lead, don’t you think? You are supposed to develop a relationship with me. It is why hearers and inspires do the things they do. If you care for me, then you will fight even harder to protect me, as I will for you.”

“That is what they tell us, but what of war? The casualties we see now are nothing compared to the blood that is shed then.” Atreus told him these things as if he did not know. He knew he they were supposed to become attached. He should be to the boys in his heard, as well. Losing Deimos hurt enough. The enjoyment brought by a meaningful friendship was far outweighed by the pain of losing it. To have such a foolish mentality, Atreus must have never lost someone he cared about. He did not know how it felt. Kratos pitied his naivety.

“The elders have methods to their madness, Kratos. You must trust it, and you must learn to trust others. It could be the reason you return home with your shield instead of on top of it.” Kratos felt his eyebrows raise. It was not often Atreus spoke of the wars to come. Apparently uncomfortable with the dark tone their talk had taken, he fell back upon his original question. “So you _really_ have never spoken just for the sake of speaking? You do not have to make friends to enjoy a conversation.”

“I do not instigate any.”

“Perhaps you should try. One day instead of sparring I should take you around and have you speak to the other boys. You may even make friends. How does that sound?” Without looking, Kratos knew he was smiling. He could hear it.

“Like a waste of our time.”

Atreus laughed, surprised. The sound made Kratos’s stomach roll again. He wished it would stop doing that. There was no use in forging a friendship. He would lose Atreus or Atreus would lose him. Either way, it would end poorly for one of them. “Well, even if you do not, I enjoy talking to you.”

Kratos, though it was hard to admit even to himself, did as well. Atreus was kind and pure of heart. He could fight and was headstrong in his refusal to allow their society to forge him into another machine. Quite possibly, he was the most human out of all of them here. On some level, Kratos admired him for all of it. Regardless of how he questioned Atreus’s mental integrity, he hoped war would not change him. He was annoying but genuine. It was a good trait. One not even the most experienced of inspirers could teach.

Feeling an odd sense of endearment, Kratos gave in to him and asked, “If you are so keen on having friends, are you not afraid to lose them when you go to war?”

He did not miss the smile Atreus flashed his way. He took his frustration out on the grass in front of him, pulling it up. “Is that talking for fun I hear?”

“No. It is a question.”

“I thought you tended not to instigate conversation?”

“I do not. I am seeking only an answer.”

“Are questions not instigations by nature?”

Kratos groaned under his breath, earning himself a satisfied noise from Atreus. Begrudgingly, he admitted defeat. He couldn’t decide if it was worth the satisfaction it brought to Atreus’s face. “Perhaps. Then humor me.”

Turning timid for the first time since he’d known him, Atreus stared down at his lap. He chuckled. It sounded nervous. “What was your question again?”

It was impossible not to feel smug. Kratos was taking this as victory. He felt the corners of his lips twitch. He surrendered to it. “If you have nothing to say, then I suppose I have instigated nothing.” His voice carried a sarcastic note. It was strange to hear it out of himself.

Atreus laughed and shoved him. Kratos caught himself before he could topple over. “ _I forgot_ , you loon! Ask it again.”

Chuckling, Kratos pressed his lips together in hopes of silencing himself. It was too late. Atreus had heard and his elation was as clear as the sky above them. “A good Spartan is never forgetful. You are lucky your shield has straps.” Atreus raised his hands as if he were pleading for mercy.

“I am not below begging. If you felt any sort of friendliness toward me, you would spare me my dignity and repeat yourself.”

Kratos took a deep breath and forced his mouth into a straight line. It was not wise to be doing this. Having _fun._ Sparing Atreus’s dignity, he did as requested. “Are you not afraid to lose your friends in war?”

“Terrified. Though, I think what is most important right now is that you feel friendliness toward me. I believe that makes _us_ friends.”

Though he wanted to correct Atreus, tell him they were not friends and would never be, Kratos knew he was right in his words. Though his feelings towards him weren’t consistently friendly, he tolerated his presence. He would sit for hours and let Atreus talk himself hoarse, if that was what he wanted. He honestly was not entirely sure what constituted a friendship beyond that. He had never been friends with anyone before, and with Atreus being his inspirer, he had a point. Hearers and inspirers were _supposed_ to be friends. By caring for one another, they fought for not only their own survival but for that of others as well. Like all parts of training, this was a tool. It was necessary to embrace it. If he fought hard, then it would be enough to keep both of them safe in war. If he felt the pain of loss, the fault was his. Suddenly, it was as if things were beginning to make a bit more sense. Kratos released a relieved breath. Though Atreus was young, he was wise. He would have to simply have faith in both him and the elders’ decision.

With no reply, Atreus apparently believed his lack of objection indicated his agreement. He reached to touched Kratos on the knee, smile as brilliant as ever. Despite everything he had tried to convince himself of, Kratos returned it.

~

A knock at the door startled both himself and his son, who scrambled for his arrows. Kratos shot out an arm to keep him still. The last who had sought them out had been Baldur. Atreus's dream had predicted the arrival of Thor. One was dead and the other would not come until Ragnarök, if at all. “It is alright,” he said as he pushed Atreus behind him, contradictory to his words. They approached the door, Kratos cracked it open. Finding a mop of curly hair on the other side, he relaxed. The boy peeked around his hip, his hand on the hilt of his hunting knife. He did not draw it.

“Atreus!”

It had been two days since they had seen him last. The remains of a young buck were draped over his shoulders. He released his hold on its hind legs to wave at the boy. “Good morning!” He turned his attention to Kratos, smile wide and crooked. “I hope I am not intruding. I thought I would repay you for breakfast.” The deer was lacking meat, cut from previous meals. Regardless, it was appreciated and completely unnecessary. Kratos did not feel comfortable accepting food in these times, but Atreus had already carried it all this way. He felt it would be rude not to.

“You did not have to,” he said, in way of gratitude.

Atreus hefted it up a little higher. “Of course I did. I have more stored at home, pray no bears sniff it out while I am gone.” A moment passed where Kratos did not respond. His son looked back and forth between them. “The rest of the meat is yours, if you are willing to help me butcher.”

Kratos took a step forward, extending a hand to prevent the boy from following him. “Wait inside.” At that, his son shuffled dejectedly out of the way so he could pull the door shut. The weather was manageable and had Atreus not been so kind as to bring them breakfast, Kratos would have gone out to hunt. Together, they walked past the gate, where Atreus laid the deer down at the edge of the woods. Wordlessly they began to hack out the meat, the task made difficult by its frozen state. The deer was too large to bring inside and thaw. This also ensured them a few precious moments alone.

“Has he spoken of me?” Atreus asked, sounding very curious.

“Yes. He has been looking forward to seeing you again.”

“That is good. I am glad to hear it.” Atreus wiped his nose with his sleeve, hands dirty from the carcass. His cheeks were flushed from the cold. Kratos had half the mind to tell him to go in and warm up while he finished with the deer. However, he was selfish, time alone together would be rare. They would have to enjoy whatever they could get.

“He has kept a journal for the creatures we have met. You are in it, under the list of those he considers his friends.” His son had set to work on it as soon as they had returned from walking Atreus home. Kratos had allowed him to stay up late in order to finish it. The boy’s talent was impressive. He had captured Atreus’s likeness well, especially for only meeting him once.

Atreus worked muscle from bone with his hunting knife. He smiled, humored, and released a sharp breath through his nose. “So you are saying he considers me a creature?”

Kratos reached to help him. Atreus shooed his hands away. Useless, Kratos sat back on his heels and said, “I am saying he considers you a friend.”

Atreus laughed aloud. “I am playing with you. This journal he keeps, it is for what you encountered on the journey I am forbidden to know about?” His tone sounded pleasant. It was a genuine question that Kratos suspected he already knew the answer to.

His voice was meeker than he would have liked when he asked, “You are not angry?”

“I will not lie to you,” Atreus said, “I was. But, I understand your ways. I was a fool to think you had nothing else to hide from me. You are a man of secrets, and I love you all the same.”

“You will know in time.”

“I have no doubts that I will.” Atreus looked over his shoulder, the fence shielding them from prying eyes. He leaned in. Kratos considered him for a moment, resisted the urge to recheck their surroundings, and met his lips for a kiss. The smile Atreus wore afterward was sweet, and despite the bitter cold and his frozen fingers, Kratos felt rather warm. They finished up the deer, and Kratos kicked the scraps away into the woods. Hopefully it would not draw unwelcome company, being as it was too much to burn in the pit. They returned to the house to store the excess and prepare themselves a meal for the morning. As Kratos set about doing so, Atreus settled by the fire on the floor. The boy, who had been sitting cross-legged on his bed, abandoned it in order to join him. His hands extended toward the fire’s warmth, Atreus nodded at him.

“Your waist scarf. I did not have a chance to say last I was here, but the pattern is Greek.”

“Yeah,” Atreus said, his agreement polite, “Father gave it to me when I was really little. Mother always said that I used to use it as a blanket. I guess I was too small to do anything else with it.”

Kratos glanced up to catch Atreus raising his eyebrows. He looked from the fire to the boy and back again. As he spoke, he rubbed his hands together. “Cherish it. There is not much left of our homeland. Have you thought of any more questions for me?”

"Actually, I have a question _about_ you.” Noticing his father's warning look, Atreus tacked on, “If that’s okay.”

“Of course it is okay!” Atreus chuckled through his words, tickled by Atreus’s manners. “What do you wish to know?”

“I’m really good with languages, and since you didn’t know a word when you were here, I was wondering if it’d be okay for me to try and help you learn? I mean, I guess Father would be better to help you since he knows Greek, but if you don’t know what something is, you could point it out or describe it to me.” The boy spoke quickly with animated excitement, Atreus listened to him ramble patiently, his expression so fond that it made Kratos’s heart sore.

Mimir's voice rang table. “Oh, laddy, I bet you could learn Greek if you tried! And I bet your father’s friend there would be _more_ than happy to help you.” Atreus looked to him, as if he somehow had forgotten the house’s third occupant. The head’s eyes flicked to him, gold and shining. He said, by explanation, “He isn’t just good with languages, he’s got a real penchant for them!”

Impressed, Atreus looked back to the boy. “Is that so?”

“I mean, I guess?”

“No.” Kratos said, grinding their conversation to a halt. “It is a dead language; no use in knowing.”

His son deflated, his shoulders a miserable slump as he frowned at his lap. He sat with his legs under himself, hands on his knees. Taking the opportunity to save what he could of their exchange, Atreus pointed to the tattoos running down his arm. “The linework is exquisite. Whoever did these had a very steady hand. Do they mean anything?”

“Yeah, they do actually.” Curiosity laced his son’s voice. Kratos found his piqued as well. He was not the only one in the room that could not read this tongue. He started with the one running down the back of his forearm,  “This one means ‘strong arm,’” then the one circling it, “this one is ‘lucky shot,’” the back of his hand, “and this one means ‘quick hand.’ My mother did them for me.” There was pride carried in his words for her handiwork, permanent pieces of her he would carry with him forever. Politely, Atreus observed them for a few more moments. “She did well.” Then, he tapped the back of his neck. “And what about this one?”

The boy sat up a little straighter. ”Oh! I always forget about that one since I can’t see it. It means ‘steady mind.’ I kept moving when Mother was doing that one, so that’s why it’s smudged.”

Atreus chuckled, squeezing his arm in sympathy. “I do not blame you! I have heard that getting them is extremely painful.” He shot a knowing smile at Kratos, who did not acknowledge him. It seemed not to dampen his spirits in the slightest, if his grin was any indication.

As he tended to, the boy spoke without thinking. “You don’t have any?”

“ _Boy._ ”

“He is fine, Kratos, leave him be,” Atreus said, his tone gaining an edge. When Kratos only huffed and looked away from them, he answered the boy's question without hesitance. “I do not.”

“Why?” It had never occured to Kratos before that Atreus was one of the only people his son had met that was not tattooed. His mother had given him his at an early age. He had grown up with both his mother and Father being adorned with them. It must have been strange to see a man so old without one.

“I suppose by the time I thought of it, I knew of no one with the capability. I certainly could never give one to myself.” Atreus shrugged, as if it was something he did not care much for.

For a moment, the boy seemed to be considering something, his expression pinched from effort. Then, he said, “I think I remember how Mother did mine. I can do one for you if you want.”

Atreus’s answer was immediate. “ _And_ I am not fond of the idea.” Always listening, Kratos fought an amused smile. He could not help but to make a comment.

“You were a Spartan,” Kratos said, the chide in good humor, “but you fear ink and a needle?”

“Yes, yes, what irony! Brandish a weapon at me and I will not bat an eye, yet the thought of being tattooed is enough to make me ill.” He laughed sardonically. Kratos turned back to the meat to hide the way his lips wanted to curl. “I am afraid I will have to reject your kind offer. Perhaps your head friend will allow you to do one for him?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I have a right plenty as is.” Mimir shared a laugh with Atreus, who patted the boy on the back to brighten him up. Once the room calmed, the boy spoke up again, relentless with his questions as usual.

“So… you don’t know how to read?”

“I _do_ know how to read,” Atreus corrected gently, “Just not your language.”

“That’s…” Kratos did not need to look up to see the way Atreus’s shoulders sagged, it was clear in his voice, “almost exactly what Father told me.”

“Is it?” Atreus sounded very amused at that. The tiniest bit of evidence that they were not so different after all this time. They had been inseparable. Kratos had been his shadow. Times were different, but perhaps not as radically as had been previously believed. He could feel Atreus’s eyes on him, but could not bring himself to look at him. Instead, he turned the meat over on the grate.

“Bloody spittin’ image,” said Mimir.

In an attempt to prevent the conversation from derailing, the boy quickly asked, “Do you want to learn how to read sometime? I could teach you.”

Atreus answered him with another question. “Did you teach your father?”

“Uh. No, actually. I wanted to. We just never got around to it. Now we’re too busy.” Kratos had taken the time to humor his son’s wishes once, and they had been attacked in their distraction by the sons of Thor. The boy could read and was almost always with him. It was needless to take the time for it.

“I think it would be best that you teach both of us, together. How does that sound?”

“I, um. You better be asking Father that.” The boy had grown sheepish, Kratos was well aware it was his fault that his son believed he wanted little to do with him. He sighed and lifted his eyes to the boy and then to Atreus.

“We will see.”

“See?” his son said, “he doesn’t want to. I can just teach you, it’s okay.” Listening to his son's pleading, Kratos found himself nursing an aching heart. He sincerely did not want to bother his father with something he perceived as a waste of time. Perhaps he would give it another chance.

“Did he say that?” Tone patient and instructive, Atreus waved an upturned palm in Kratos’s direction. “He simply said that he would see. Trust that. Perhaps we can find the time this afternoon before I go home.” His eyes fixed pointedly on Kratos, who read his message loud and clear. They _would_ be learning to read today, regardless of his feelings on the matter.  The meat still thawing, Kratos turned it again.

“You said this one here,” Atreus ran his finger along the runes circling the boy’s forearm, “means ‘lucky shot?’” He then pointed to the wall, where the boy's bow and quiver hung next to the door. “I was wondering who’s bow that was. Is it not too big for you?”

“Not really,” said his son, “I’ve gotten used to it. Mother made it big so I could grow into it.” With the upgrades Kratos had paid for, it was no longer a branch from a tree. It was ornate and built to last; if the boy took care of it, he would surely have it for many years to come.

“I see.” Sorrow and sympathy tinged the words. Though Faye's death meant there was nothing preventing them from being together, it was still unfortunate for the boy to have to lose her so soon. Kratos did not know to feel. Was it more appropriate after all these weeks to mourn her? Or to be thankful that losing her had allowed him to gain Atreus? The correct answer was one he would never receive. “That was thoughtful of her.”

Unwilling to speak in detail of his mother with a man that was not his father or Mimir, the boy pulled them back on subject for the second time. “Have you ever shot one before?”

Nodding, Atreus answered him with enthusiasm. “I have! Many, many years ago. I’m afraid I do not remember quite how to now.”

“I can show you sometime.” He drew out his words until they almost formed a question. It was customary to be told no by his father. Kratos, without looking from the deer to gage Atreus’s expression, knew exactly what his answer would be. He doubted that he had forgotten how to shoot, perhaps it had been decades since he had last, but Sparta had made weapons of many manners to be second nature to each soldier. To forget would be a feat of its own.

“You can show me right now if you wish.”

“Really?”

“No,” Kratos said, pulling the venison from over the fire, “eat first, then you may go.” He piled it into a wooden bowl and passed it to his son, who took what he wanted before handing it to Atreus. They ate silently around the pit. The boy finished quickly in his enthusiasm. As soon as Atreus wiped his fingers clean, he had him on his feet and out the door, bow and quiver in hand. The door shut behind them. Feeling Mimir’s eyes on his back, Kratos ate the last of his meal. He was not interested in anything the head had to say to him. Though he figured Mimir knew as much, it did not stop him from calling out as he began to leave.

“Brother, I—”

Kratos slammed the door behind him.

The disruption did not draw either his son’s or Atreus’s attention. Both were focused on their task. The boy knocked Atreus’s boot with his own. “Widen your stance a little.” They stood several yards back from a tree that had an arrow stuck in it, presumably from where the boy had shown him how to aim. “Make sure you’re using the arrowhead to aim. Try to split my arrow in half—”

“I cannot do that.” Atreus laughed, dropping the bow. Kratos watched as his son eased it back into position.

“I’m not expecting you to! I’m just trying to give you a target. Fix your stance again.” Atreus did, shuffling his feet apart. The boy positioned his elbow higher. “Draw back, take a deep breath, and… _fire!_ ” The arrow fell short, sticking into the snow at the tree’s base. The boy threw up his arms in rejoice. “That was great for your first time! You’re way better than I was.” Atreus chuckled, watching him run off to retrieve the arrow for him. He spied Kratos over his shoulder and waved.

“I see you came to join us. Want a turn?”

Kratos merely grunted and crossed his arms. He would not participate, but it was rather refreshing to see his son enjoy himself. It brought him a warmth he had not felt in a very long time. To watch his son play as a boy should was of great importance. He was not worried about the weather, food, or the rise of the alleged end times. It was good for him. For all of them.

The boy returned, and helped Atreus fix his feet once more, continuing their lesson as if his father had never interrupted them. As Kratos watched, his mind drifted elsewhere. Somehow, through all his tragedies, life had brought him here. It was strange how things worked out in the end, taking away everything before granting it back. He was afraid to lose this, but it did not consume him. He had it now. His time was better spent being grateful and enjoying it for as long as possible. This had been all he had ever wanted. Atreus and a child, far away from Sparta. Never would he have guessed he would be so richly rewarded for his suffering.

A long while passed, the exact amount lost in Kratos’s thought. Atreus had shot several more arrows by the time he had shaken himself from it, and the boy had deemed his improvement enough to cease their training. Kratos still was unsure if Atreus was faking his incompetence. If he was, he was doing so convincingly. Prepared for them to head back inside where it was marginally warmer, he was met with Atreus suggesting that the boy teach them a few runes while the weather remained pleasant. They cleared away the snow from the ground to sit. Kratos and Atreus were armed with sticks, while the boy sat in front of them with his journal in his lap.

“So, I guess I’ll start with the basics. Each rune stands for something. Some are for gods, some are animals, some are plants. Some can have more than one meaning. I know this probably sounds confusing, but I promise it’s not that hard!” He drew something in his journal and held up the page for his father and Atreus to see. Kratos recognized it from their journey, though he did not admit it aloud. “This one is _Óss._ It stands for Odin and it makes the ‘ _ah’_ sound you hear when you speak.”

Atreus lifted his hand before speaking. “Odin as in the god?” Kratos and his son looked at him for a moment in surprise. Kratos was sure he knew not of the existence of gods outside their homeland. That seemed to be an incorrect assumption. The village people must have informed him.

The boy answered in very simple terms, which Kratos was grateful for. “Yeah! That’s right.” Atreus, with his curiosity satisfied for now, questioned it no further and nodded for him to continue.

“Okay, so I want you guys to write this rune in the snow next to you. You can copy mine this time, but after that I want you to do it from memory. Got it?”

Nothing could compare to the expression his son wore when he drew it correctly.


	4. Chapter 4

Atreus was making habit of his visitations. As a result, the boy was growing far less fearful of mysterious knocks at their door. No longer did he bolt for the closest weapon. Kratos, however, remained cautious, and rightfully so. In their home, they were nothing more than caged animals awaiting slaughter to the Æsir. It would be foolish to be anything less than careful. Though it was sound logic to believe the only one who sought them until Ragnarök was Atreus, logic also spoke that Fimbulwinter did not grant sufficient cover to warrant dropping their guard. Being a target complicated trivial things such as visits. Today was no different, his son bounding past him to answer Atreus’s courteous knocking. Guided by his instinct to protect, Kratos snared him by the arm as he passed.

“ _Boy_.”

The boy paid his warning no mind, pulling free from his grip. Kratos sighed and stood to follow. At the door, they found Atreus in the threshold, teeth chattering in his smile. Snow decorated his cloak and hair. He carried his dory with him, leaning on it. Kratos could not help but find the irony in it. After his words to his son about his waist scarf, here he was resting all his weight upon his own Spartan relic as if it were no more precious to him than the sticks outside. It was both disrespectful and irresponsible. His dory was likely one of the last surviving Spartan weapons, the rest lost to time and the destruction he had wrought a lifetime ago. Kratos banished the thought from his mind. Between the two of them, he should not be the one to care. He held no respect for his homeland, his mentality surrounding weapons born only from his military conditioning. It did not matter what a man did with an old spear. If it were to break, the dwarven brothers would be more than happy to fix it, improve upon it, if given the chance. 

“It’s good to see you!” the boy said, before Atreus had a chance to greet them. Kratos merely grunted his agreement.

Atreus simply laughed and said, “And it is good to see you! _Both_ of you.” He bent at the waist to scoop him into a hug, his dory in his other hand a safe distance away. He ruffled the boy's hair as he stood straight and invited himself inside. As he skirted around Kratos, he patted him on the arm. His touch remained longer than was necessary, as it always did. Though he yearned for more, Kratos did not reach for him. They would find time. Until then, he must have patience. His son followed Atreus to the pit, where they sat side by side. Kratos was soon to join them, watching as Atreus attempted to wring the numbness out of his fingers.

The boy reached for Atreus’s dory, where it lay across his lap. He let him take it without protest. “Why do you have your spear?” he asked, closing one eye to peer up its length. Kratos held his tongue, wishing for his son to put it down. It was of a time and place from which he shielded him most. It was an irrational, primal drive to protect his son from the very things that had ruined him. His fear was irrational. They were a danger no longer. He had ensured that. Just as his waist scarf brought him no harm, the dory would not either. Kratos tore his eyes from it, large in his son’s hands.

“Since you have been so kind as to offer me archery lessons, I thought you may be interested in learning to wield this in exchange.”

The boy’s focus snapped to his father, eyes wide in awe and mounting anticipation. “Father, can I?”

“No, you may not.” His reply had been instant. Kratos had not given it a moment of consideration. His son drooped with disappointment, though subtle anger read in the way his nose scrunched. He held the spear back out toward Atreus in attempt to return it. His hand was gently pushed away. Atreus scoffed. Dismissively, he flicked his wrist. “Do not listen to him,” he told the boy, though his gaze was directed at his father. Kratos could only describe his expression as mildly annoyed: eyes narrowed and brow flat. He stood no chance to win this. “This is not his choice to make. It is in your blood to learn.” The words rang with what the boy had told him days before: _It’s as much a part of me as here._ Had it been over a different matter, he would have found their similar mindset endearing.

Again, Atreus turned to his father. His expression turned hopeful: eyes bright, brow drawn, mouth in a tight line. Kratos, as he was prone, could not deny the boy what he wanted. It would do no harm to any of them for him to learn how to wield a spear. He would allow it and trust in Atreus’s judgment. Never before had it lead him wrong. “Fine,” he said, noticeably disgruntled. As if before Kratos could change his mind, the boy leaped to his feet, the spear held close. He moved quickly for the door. “Careful, boy.”

“I know, I will be!” 

“Then do not run with it.”

“Oh. Yes, sir. Sorry.” Head down, he waited by the door for Atreus to join him. Atreus chuckled as he stood, extending a hand to help Kratos to his feet. Though it was nothing more than a friendly gesture, Kratos did not accept it. He stood on his own. The fewer touches they shared, the better. Though it was not easy, it was only temporary. Atreus took no offense, his eyes as soft as his smile. Unspoken gratitude. He turned to usher the boy out into the cold. Kratos filed out behind them, his axe in his hand, the familiar weight a comfort. For the time being, the head remained inside.

Immediately, Atreus began to teach, falling into the old role like a worn set of clothes. He began by showing the boy the proper hold and grip, before perfecting his stance. He spoke just as he had when he had taught Kratos—firm, kind, patient. The sound alone was as if Greece had risen out of the snow around him, Kratos a child in red rags riddled with holes. It occurred to him swiftly how much his son favored Deimos, dwarfed by the dory at his side. He had never seen it before, but now that he had, it was impossible to ignore. He was a man the boy was yet to learn the existence of. Likely he wouldn’t ever. Kratos had nothing to say of him. It mattered little regardless, he was only a faceless man he would never meet. It was strange to know he had believed the same of Atreus. Though there remained a stark contrast. He had carried Deimos’s limp corpse in his hands, broken in a thousand places and battered by Thanatos. Laid him down in a grave with a heavy heart—the last he had to live for, taken from him. Knowing these were subjects best left alone, Kratos rounded the corner of the house to split wood for the fire. 

His fight with Baldur had caused much damage. When they had first returned home he had made repairs a priority, patching the holes in the roof, the fence. The trees that had been downed now laid behind the house in a pile, which he had been slowly whittling away at, repurposing the splintered remains into firewood. It was tedious, repetitive work, a sweet remedy for his troubled mind. Between the wind and the thunk of his axe, Kratos heard little of Atreus and his son's exchange. Snowflakes swirled at the mercy of the weather, covering the ground and hiding the stumps that littered it. The wind whispered of a conversation on the other side of the house, distance reducing it to an indecipherable mumble. While the words were lost, Kratos could still hear their nature. Instructional. Good. He carried on.

The majority of his hindrances were behind him. His secrets were shared. No longer need he concern himself with what might be. Atreus had chosen to look past his faults, to accept him still. It had been a concern, a dark cloud muddling his concentration. To have it lifted was to have clarity. Focus. Life carried on as routine and mundane as it had before, Atreus serving to make it a little brighter. Easier. Kratos would not have it any other way. The boy would eventually need know of his relationship with his namesake. They could not hide it forever. Regardless, that was not his largest concern. It was instead with the head, who he had failed to bring outside on purpose. He was not interested in whatever he had to say on the matter. He sought no council or opinion. He knew this was something he could not avoid long. It was clear he wanted to have a word with him. What else would he have tried to speak of alone, that he could not in front of the boy or Atreus? Until then, he would simply enjoy what he had. His son and Atreus already were quite fond of each other. There was not much more he could ask for.

Focusing on the task at hand, Kratos chose to abandon any thought of the past or worry of the future. It was a lesson he preached often to his son but scarcely practiced himself. It was difficult, but it would bring him good. He had everything he wanted. There was no reason to allow his thoughts to distract him from it. He split log after log, the labor barely enough to keep him warm. The wind carried to him the sound of laughter. Atreus, then his son, loud and boisterous like he never had heard. He wondered if even Faye had. It was a difficult question to judge. With his sickness, he had been reduced often to a shivering mess in his bed, feverish and disoriented. There were many nights Kratos had come home to him asleep and left long before he woke. It robbed his son of many days. At the time he had not known he was to blame, hiding what they were. It made the shame no less difficult to deal with. The irony stung him still—that he had hurt his child most by trying to protect him. Had Faye known? Had she seen the truth in her visions and knowingly let their child suffer? The thought struck him hard like a blow across the face. Leviathan came down and did not rise again.

Movement brought his eyes through the passage made by the overhang, toward the front of the house. Atreus and the boy had tumbled, wrestling playfully in the snow. The dory was nowhere to be seen. Atreus, knowing well Kratos’s distaste, must have intentionally distracted from their training. Kratos left his axe in a log and moved to join. From the ground, Atreus smiled up at him, then pushed the boy off. His son only laughed again. He did not cough even once. Snow clumped in Atreus's hair as he sat up. “Strong one you’ve got there. You should not underestimate his size, he could down a bear with only his thumb.” 

Kratos, though he had refused the gesture earlier, reached down to help Atreus up. As soon as he brought him to his feet, he retreated from the touch, instead brushing the snow from the back of his son’s tunic. It melted under his palm. “It is unwise to be wet in this weather.”

“Sorry. We were just having fun.” In a display of his growing independence, the boy stepped out of reach to finish dusting off himself.

“Well, that is what a fire is for! It is not like we are far from one,” Atreus defended, shrugging out of his cloak. He shook the snow from it like dirt from a rug. “Are you done with the wood?”

“I am never done.”

Atreus laughed as if it were a joke. It might have been. They watched the boy scamper off where the dory lay discarded. He thrust it into a tree, tearing a line through the bark. “The snow is beginning to pick up. We should head in where it is warm.” Kratos only grunted, his attention mostly on his son, who continued to play. “Mm. He is wonderful, is he not? Your wife raised him very well. Though, he reminds me much of you.”

“Does he?” It was not exactly what Kratos wished to hear. He had kept himself distant for a reason, sacrificed many opportunities and milestones. He had never heard his first word or seen his first steps. If he had been any worse of a husband, he would have missed his birth entirely. He had made himself a stranger in attempt for his son to be nothing reminiscent of him. To hear otherwise was disheartening. As of recent, he was beginning to see it differently where he had been unable to before, so blinded by his fear. His mistakes were to be told, to ensure the boy would not repeat them. They were for teaching lessons he would never have to learn for himself.

“Yes.” Atreus’s expression was worn soft with tenderness. Kratos itched to reach for his hand. 

They stood together for a short while, a comfortable silence taking residence in the space between them. It was impossible not to watch how Atreus’s eyes followed the boy, adoring as if he had fathered him from the moment he was born. Eventually, Kratos tore his attention away, pressed by the need to get his son inside and out of the snow. He called for him, to which the boy reluctantly ceased his play, bringing himself and the spear back to the house. Inside, they settled around the fire to dry out their clothes and warm their hands. Atreus busied himself with teaching the boy to arm wrestle, purposely letting him win several times over before demanding mercy and a break. In the short silence that followed, Kratos could not help but take the opportunity to admire him, tolerant and loving and every bit of the father that he wasn’t. Bringing him here had been the right decision. His son needed someone who could give him the things that Faye had. The boy flourished under openness. It was something Kratos could never learn to give him. 

“I have been thinking about the runes you taught me.”

His son lifted his head to look at Atreus, obviously pleased that he had kept his lesson in mind. “Have you learned them yet?”

“I would not go so far as to say that!” said Atreus, holding his hands between them as if asking for lenience. “I have been thinking about what they stand for. Gods of this land.” Kratos knew in what direction this conversation was to head. He bit his tongue and did not try to stop it. It was just as it had been with the spear. Even if he wished him not to be, Atreus had been right and so had his son. Greece was as much a part of him as these woods. He deserved to be curious and Kratos trusted Atreus not to overshare. “Has your father spoken of the gods that ruled Greece?” 

The boy did not look at his father. Likely aware of it being a subject his father did not enjoy and not wanting to chance being told no. “Not really.”

“Would you like to hear a few stories?” Anxious, Kratos brought his gaze to Atreus who’s answering smile told only of reassurances. He would watch his words, it said. There was no reason to worry. Just as he willed himself to relax, Mimir spoke up from the table.

“Laddy, would you mind sparing a moment to bring me over there? It’s been a right long time since I’ve heard anything concerning Greece.” The boy was quick to get to his feet, retrieving the head and sitting him on the floor next to his father. Kratos entertained the idea of finding something better to do. These gods were long dead. Speaking of them did nothing but waste breath. Though as he prepared to stand, he was reminded of times past where he had done the same. Intentionally he had ignored many of the tales Faye had regaled. How many hours had he tuned out her voice, never knowing how soon she would leave them? He regretted it dearly, squandering the years he had with her. What he wouldn’t give to hear her speak them again.

Atreus offered the head a smile in greeting. “I would ask how you know of Greece in these lands, but I suppose you _are_ the smartest man alive. It would not surprise me if you knew its history better than I!” The head scoffed at his words, bashful. Then, Atreus began, turning his eyes to the boy. “Hm. Where to begin?” He glanced to Kratos, a look he knew Mimir was quick to catalog. “I suppose it is safe to say you know nothing of the Titans?” The boy shook his head. “Then I believe a good place to start would be with Kronos.”

Kratos breathed deeply. Atreus’s reassurance had meant nothing. Out of all the beings to speak of, Zeus’s father was the one he found to be appropriate? It would be conspicuous to put end the story before it even began. For the time being, he would give Atreus the benefit of the doubt. If it edged too close to Zeus, he would end it and send him home.

“The Titans were incredibly large beings that ruled long before the gods even existed. Kronos, God of Time and a direct descendant of the sky and earth, overthrew his father’s rule—”

“Wait. Was his father the earth or the sky?” The boy’s question had cut Atreus short. He dropped his arms to his sides from where they had been spread wide in gesticulation.

“Ah, good question! His father was the sky, Ouranos, and his mother was the earth, Gaia, who mothered not only him, but _all_ life.”

Kratos watched as his son knit his brows, trying to piece together the information he was being given. He rubbed his chin and said, “So they were Titans?” 

“No,” Atreus corrected gently, his smile still rooted firmly in place, “they were not Titans. They created the Titans.”

“I don’t really get it. If Father’s a—a mortal and my mother was mortal, then that makes me mortal.” His son’s verbal stumble had been made in a valiant effort not to disclose their natures. While Kratos appreciated the sentiment, it made him realize that his son had not been made aware of Atreus’s knowledge. He knew they were gods, though, Kratos had not told him that Faye was Giant. That would come later when the appropriate time arose. For now, he let them continue as they were.

“Do not be ashamed! That is usually how it works, but there is only one earth and one sky, how could there be more?”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Kratos could tell from his son’s tone that it did not. “You can keep going.”

“You may stop me at any time.” Atreus glanced to where Mimir sat on the floor. “You, as well.” 

His inclusion startled a laugh from the head. “Ha! I think I’ll be just fine on my own, thanks!” 

Atreus continued, Kratos could hear the smile in his voice. He had not given a frame of reference for Katos to speculate when the village people had died off. Morbid curiosity led him to wonder just how much time Atreus had spent alone, without the contact of a single being. At least ones that were friendly. Beyond their protection stave, these woods were unforgiving. Surely he had encountered a fair number of Draugr and troll.  “With his father overthrown, Kronos took the throne of the world as his own. After which, an oracle came to him and warned him that one of his sons would overthrow _him_ , just as he had done _his_ father. He grew so fearful that he ate each of his children as they were born.”

“Ew, seriously?” The boy’s lips pulled back in disgust. He stuck out his tongue. It was disturbing to realize how growing up knowing these stories had desensitized them. Perhaps it had been orchestrated, to ready them for the carnage of battle. Kratos was glad it distressed his son so. It should _._ “Why would he do that?”

Atreus frowned as he thought. “It is simple. He was afraid.”

“But they were his _children_. Shouldn’t he love them enough to want them to live?” The boy looked to his father with confusion. Kratos knew by the pinched expression alone he was thinking of Baldur and of Freya’s willingness to let him kill her. Perhaps he reflected on his father’s confession, as well, that he would do the same for him without hesitation. Unsure of how he should respond, if at all, Kratos turned his face to the fire. “Even if it might cost him his rule, his family should come first. Right?”

“I suppose that is how it should be, isn’t it?” Atreus said, his voice a little sad. Before he could say anything more, the boy had another question for him.

“So what became of the prophecy? Did no one ever take his throne? And how were the gods created? You said they ruled before there were any.”

“You have quite the ear! The prophecy did come true, I’m afraid.” He looked to Kratos, nervous. This story was getting into territory it was not to go, and he knew it. Kratos, keeping his movement subtle, shook his head. The boy did not need to hear Zeus’s name. Though it had not been spoken by the illusion in Hel, he wished for the boy to know as little of his grandfather as possible. It served nothing for him to learn of the cycle that had been passed down since the dawn of gods. Kratos very much intended for his son to break it. “His wife, Rhea, hid their youngest son from him by allowing an eagle to carry him to a faraway island. There, Gaia cared for him until he was a young man. Encouraged by her to avenge his siblings, he freed them from Kronos’s belly and banished him to crawl through the Desert of Lost Souls in shackles, carrying the temple of Pandora on his back.”

Deciding it best to distract his son, Kratos said, “You did not tell how she tricked him.” He did not want him asking any questions of this “hero’s” identity.

“Oh!” Atreus brought a hand to his head in a gesture of forgetfulness. “That _is_ the best part, isn’t it?”

Suddenly, Mimir spoke, seeming to catch on to how Kratos was steering the story away from a particular character. “I think I remember how this goes, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all!”

“Rhea swaddled a rock in a blanket and offered it as she would a babe. Kronos was, I suppose, either too big or too stupid to tell the difference and ate it instead!”

The boy gave no immediate reaction. He dropped his head toward his lap, lip between his teeth. “Huh. I still can’t believe he ate his kids.” He peeked up at his father from across the pit. “I’m glad you didn’t eat me.” His son's words blindsided him. Kratos could not help but to laugh, a single gruff noise. Everyone looked to him, Atreus beaming, his smile nothing short of radiant.

“Do not speak so soon. If our hunts do not begin to provide, I just might.”

His son looked to Atreus, then Mimir, then finally back to him. “Did you just... make a joke? Or, I guess, try to.” Atreus hid a snort behind his hand. 

“That is something he no longer does? Oh, thank the gods he was kind enough to spare you. Your father has a _terrible_ sense of humor! All these years apart and I see it has developed none.” Reaching over the head, he took Kratos by the shoulder, shaking him. Unsure of what to do or why he had even said that, Kratos brushed his hand off. His chuckles petering out, Atreus graciously took the attention away from him.

“Do you want to know how we came to have seasons in Greece?” Mesmerized by the prospect of another story, the boy nodded. “The goddess of harvest, Demeter, had a daughter named Persephone, beautiful and beloved by her mother. Thinking her safe in their garden, Demeter allowed her to go out alone. It was a foolish mistake, however, as Hades—the ruler of the underworld—kidnapped her, wanting her beauty for himself. While he held her captive, Persephone ate the seeds of a pomegranate and—”

“What’s that?”

“A pomegranate? It is a fruit. It is said that if one eats the fruits of their captor, they will have to remain with them forever. Though Demeter was so distraught she ordered all the plants to cease their growth during Persephone’s absence. With all of Greece having nothing to eat, a deal was struck. Since she had only eaten a few of the seeds, she would be allowed to stay with her mother half the year, and the other half was to be spent as Hades’s wife in the underworld. When Persephone would come to stay with her mother, it would turn spring, and when Hades would claim her, it harkened winter.”

“Mm,” said the boy, to acknowledge that he had been listening. “You’re a lot better at telling stories than father.”

“Am I? That is good to hear. I will tell you as many as you wish! I think it important for you to learn and pass on.” There no longer were young Spartans to be taught these stories. Kratos had ensured it. He did not want to know how many children he had slaughtered through his actions. When Greece fell, its people went with it, indiscriminate. Guilt scratched at his heart, a dog begging to be let inside. “How about one more?”

Their afternoon continued in much the same manner, spiraling from stories of the gods to Greece itself. Mimir had made himself known, interjecting Atreus’s tales with comments that had the both of them laughing. Though Kratos suspected him not to understand most of them, his son laughed along as if he did. Once he had given up on resisting, it was pleasant to simply sit and listen. While he was not fond of his son knowing of his homeland, Atreus carried great pride in it still. If he felt it important to share, then Kratos did not think it fair to take that right from him. Regardless, it was good to see him getting along with both his son and the head. His transition from stranger to household friend had been smooth and quick. Kratos would have it no other way. Perhaps they would welcome him openly into their family given enough time, allow him to stay with them. Though he tried not to keep his hopes high, he found it difficult. He had wanted this since he was young. Every day it felt more and more surreal. Unimaginable that it could be within the realm of possibility. 

Atreus had stayed far past dinner and into the early evening, the light fading. Though none of them wished for him to leave, it was near dark. The house was lit by candles, something Kratos seldom did. Usually, they were in bed before it grew dark enough to warrant their use. The boy, up far past time for sleep, hung on by a thread, yawning as he listened. Politely, Kratos stood from where he had been sitting on the floor. They had hardly moved since morning. “It is late,” he said, hoping Atreus would catch what he was trying to insinuate. It had been very long since they had shared a bed. Kratos could not help but miss the sweet press of his chest against his back. 

Seeming shocked by the time that had passed, Atreus rose. “Oh! It is, isn’t it? I suppose I have stayed much longer than I planned! I was caught up in conversation.” His smile was apologetic. Kratos’s gaze fixed for a moment too long on his lips before he corrected himself and made eye contact. “You should have said something sooner.” Perhaps he should have. The temperature was steadily declining, despite the well-fed fire in the pit. Atreus pulled his cloak around his shoulders. Kratos made his offer more apparent.

“You may stay if you wish.”

“Oh, no. There is no need.”

The boy joined them on his feet, picking up the head as he rose. He cradled Mimir in his arms. Concern etched his forehead as he said, “But it’s almost dark. You should at least let us walk you.”

“You believe I have not had to find my way around in the dark before?” He chuckled, obviously flattered by their extended invitation. “Perhaps another time, but for now, I think it is time for _someone_ to get their rest.” He raised his brows at the boy, who’s mouth twisted into a pout.

“It’s already past time for me to go to bed, it won’t hurt to stay up longer, right, Father?”

“He is right, you need to rest.”

“Please? It’s not safe to be out this late.”

Atreus and Kratos exchanged glances, amusement in Atreus’s expression. It was clear he fully expected for the boy's offer to be refused. Kratos did much the opposite. “Fine.” 

Atreus laughed with his surprise. “That is not necessary. I can get myself home.”

“I do not doubt your abilities.” Atreus shook his head in disbelief. “But the boy speaks wisely.”

“Yes!” his son cheered, sitting Mimir down on his bed as he went to gather his bow and quiver.

“Then you walk me halfway and no more. Both of you need your rest.”

They had come to a compromise and walked with torches in hand, illuminating where the Bifröst was too dim. Though Kratos had instructed his son to stay close, he still wandered ahead, having memorized the path. Taking advantage of the little privacy they were given, Atreus spoke to him in soft tones, hoping not to draw the boy’s attention.

“I am by no means trying to teach you how to parent, but I have a feeling you allow the boy to get his way often.”

Kratos grunted. He did. They had run errands for both the dead and the living, kept a dwarf’s soul trapped in a stone, and freed dragons all because his son had wanted to. He gave in because he felt the boy deserved what he wanted. It did not help that his natural penchant for altruism reminded him severely of Faye. Seeing them use themselves for good would do her proud. Another reason was his bottomless guilt, an inky abyss he could never escape. He had not been the father he should have been. He had decided to try to build a new family in order to redeem himself as a husband and a parent. He had failed at both. Letting the boy have what he wanted was far easier than giving him the apologies Kratos felt he deserved. 

“As much as I feel like I should advise you not to spoil him, it is nice to see that you have grown softer with age. And for what it’s worth, I do not think I could say no to him either.” Atreus patted him sympathetically on the arm. The wind beat at them like a cruel whip, cold and sharp. They trudged on in silence until Atreus deemed that they had wasted enough time accompanying him. The weather and darkness forced them to say their goodbyes quickly, after which Kratos ushered his son home, eager to get him out of the cold and into bed.

He woke later to his son crawling over him in the night, his hand ice where he braced himself on his shoulder. “Atreus?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep. The boy startled, then continued, settling under the furs next to him, the side of the bed Faye had left empty. Kratos could feel how his shivers racked the straw mattress.

“Sorry. I couldn’t sleep. I promise I tried to, it’s just so cold.”

Kratos only grunted in acceptance and turned away from him. The fire crackled, the smoke rising lazily to the ceiling, out the vent in the roof. There were nights where Kratos pondered on closing it. It would mean sacrificing their fire, but there was a chance the house would retain its warmth longer after sunset. Or they could heat rocks, which, depending on how many times Atreus kicked him in his sleep, could be implemented rather soon. As much as he feared his son getting burned on them, wrapping them in fur scraps might be a simple preventative. Nevertheless, he feared how quickly they would cool. Kratos was not fond of the idea of waking up several times a night to reheat stones. 

Somehow aware his father had yet to fall back asleep, Atreus spoke. “You actually paid attention when he was telling stories tonight. And they were about gods! You never listened when Mother told stories about the gods, you said so.” It was not an accusation, only a simple fact.

Kratos did not turn to face him. Doing so would only encourage conversation. “I said I seldom did, not that I never did.”

“Is there that much of a difference?”

Kratos said nothing, hoping that his lack of response would cue his son into it being time for sleep. Whatever he wanted to discuss could wait until morning. 

Unfortunately, it seemed to do the opposite. “I can’t believe he fought in wars. _Killed_ people.”

“ _Rest_.”

“I know, I know. I’m just saying, I thought he was going to be more like you.”

Defeated and intrigued, Kratos turned onto his back. “Like me?”

“Yeah,” said Atreus, the shadows cast over his face obstructed his expression. Kratos considered offering to switch sides of the bed to allow him closer to the fire. He did not, however, driven by his looming fear of the gods appearing at their home. Allowing the boy closer to fire was placing him closer to the door. “Like—you _know._ All serious. Which I guess doesn’t make sense because you already told me he smiled a lot. I just don’t understand how you could be at war all the time and still be so happy.”

“Did you come here to sleep or to talk?”

“Sorry, Father. I’ve just been thinking about it.”

“Does it really matter? Is it not better for you to simply be glad for him that he has moved past the horrors he has seen?”

“I guess.”

“Good. Then sleep.”

Atreus said nothing, though having his curiosity discouraged disheartened him. It was thick and obvious in his quiet. Though, after several long moments, he gave in, yawning and shifting closer to steal some of his father’s warmth. Kratos turned away from him again, furs tucked under his arm. In the night that remained, Atreus kicked him only once.

~

Word tended to travel quickly in the agōgē: inspirers passed on information to their hearers, who then, in turn, spread it like a disease within their herd. Kratos learned of many things simply through overhearing them. It was rare the others approached to speak with him directly. He had believed it something Atreus had set up when two boys came to him. Before he could ask what it was he had bribed them with, they told him. Atreus had been punished for stealing food. Had been beaten for it. They wore grim faces, suggested that it might be worth his time to check on him. Showing them not an ounce of gratitude, Kratos turned away. He followed the river downstream, in the direction he knew Atreus’s herd to be. He found him as soon as he came upon it, lying prone with his cloak rucked down around his waist. His bare back was streaked with angry red, too far away to tell the extent of his injuries. Stepping over a few mats that were in his way, Kratos dropped into a crouch at his side. Atreus had either heard his footsteps or felt his presence, turning his head toward him. His movements were slow and stiff, bringing Kratos’s attention down his spine. Blood dripped down his sides in rivulets, bleeding sluggish and steady from the open wounds that laced his back like the ribbon of a corset. Kratos, consumed with his concern, reached to touch them.

“Why are you making that face?” Atreus’s voice, in stark contrast to the condition of his body, was strong and well. Kratos stilled and brought his hand back to himself. He eased onto his knees in the grass. Pebbles bit into them, but he ignored it. Atreus, unsurprisingly, wore a smile, though it was tight from pain. Kratos wondered which of them he was trying to be strong for. He did not know how to answer the question, and again, the wounds stole his focus. Was it not obvious? “I am alright, you do not have to look so worried.”

“I was told you were caught stealing,” Kratos said, unable to stave off his accusatory undertone. Atreus sighed, and immediately grit his teeth at how it stretched the skin along his shoulders. Kratos could see the tension in his jaw. 

“I was,” said Atreus, once he had recovered enough to speak, “you were told correctly.”

“Why.”

“You know well _why._ Did you come here to lecture me or to ensure I would live?” Atreus was angry, his mood understandably ruined. It was rare for him to be this way. He sounded much as he did the day he had prepared Kratos for his first spar with a spear, harsh but not without purpose. “There will come a time when you must steal for yourself, I cannot do it for you forever, Kratos. What are you going to do when I go to war?”

“I will make do with what they feed us.” Kratos felt a heat creeping up his neck. He was getting irritated. He did not ask for Atreus to do this for him. He never had. He did not complain of the constant gnawing of his stomach that pork’s blood could never quite wash away. Atreus did this of his own accord and to be blamed for it was unjust. 

“You know that is impossible! You cannot sustain yourself on what they give you. Do you not think it purposeful they only feed us once?”

Kratos did not stop to ponder his question, the broil in his belly urging him to respond quick and sharp. “They tell us not to steal. Perhaps they do not give us enough to eat, but I am loyal to Sparta. I would rather suffer than to go against the state.”

Against his reeds, Atreus shook his head, his expression warping into something akin to pity, though it did not come from anyplace kind. Atreus believed him to be stupid. Kratos balled his fingers into fists so tightly that his knuckles cracked. “I will only ask this of you once. Do not act like starving yourself makes you the best here. You are better than _no one,_ and you are a fool for believing otherwise. Now if you would _listen_ to me, I am trying to tell you that they make this rule for us to break. It is to teach stealth—”

“It is to teach us to ignore hunger, do you think they will stop war to feed us—”

“ _Be quiet!_ ” The command was louder than Kratos had ever heard Atreus speak. He had never yelled at him before, and as a result, it struck Kratos dumb and silent. “You are my hearer and that is the role I expect you to play. Once I have finished you are welcome to refute, but do not make this into an argument. Perhaps I was harsh with my words. It is not easy to be kind in this state, and that does not give me an excuse. It does not give you one, either. You should have a stronger hold on your anger. Letting it control you is a loss, Kratos. You must understand that.” He breathed deeply, sweat beaded on his brow. Kratos had nothing to say. “As I was telling you—they expect us to steal. They tell us not to because they want us to learn stealth, and what better way to learn than when your flesh is on the line? You are never punished for stealing, you are for getting caught. If you still have any doubts, I promise you I speak the truth from experience.”

His avowal drew Kratos’s gaze to his wounds again. Deep canyons crisscrossing his body from nape to tail, raised and weeping. He had been whipped to an abominable degree. No elder would have done this. They likely had allowed an older boy to pass judgment unto him, one soon to be put into war. Fear began to claw at Kratos’s throat, cold and with spindly fingers. What if he lost Atreus to this? He may seem fine now, but Kratos had witnessed others succumb to their wounds suddenly and without warning. It would not be what Atreus wanted, he knew, but he would avenge him. Find who had beat him beyond reason and have him feel the pain he had forced Atreus to endure.

Likely noticing his tense quiet, Atreus edged a hand off his mat to lightly pinch at his knee. “Are you going to say anything?”

There was nothing to say. “No. You have brought up fair points.”

“Ah, good,” Atreus said, sounding tired and relieved, “because if you tried to question any of it, I would have asked you to leave.” Kratos was glad as well. He loathed the fact that he would have to return to his herd soon before someone came looking for him. “Before I forget—” Atreus raised up on his elbow to reach under himself, breathing labored through bared teeth, eyes screwed shut. Kratos’s hands hovered nearby, knowing there was nothing he could do to help. Finally, Atreus found what he was searching for in his robes, an extremely squashed loaf of bread. He flopped onto his stomach to catch his breath, then thrust it out toward Kratos, who did not take it. “Here. They took everything but this. Bread is a rare find, enjoy it.”

Kratos, though it felt as if his stomach were ready to crawl up his throat for it, declined. He pushed it away. “You need it more than I.”

“And if you lose any more weight, you’ll be so shamed that you will wish you got caught.” It was true. Sparta took no pride in men whose bodies showed any evidence of inadequate nutrition. It was a conundrum that Kratos was finally beginning to understand. “Do not let my efforts be in vain. I was hoping to feed us both. Take it.”

After another long look at his back, Kratos did so. Albeit begrudgingly. Atreus needed to eat to maintain his strength. He needed it to heal. After a long moment of consideration, he tore it in two and passed half to Atreus, who sighed before accepting it. He wore an easy smile on his lips. “Thank you.” They began to eat slowly, savoring the flavor. After a while, Atreus spoke again. “I have never heard of anyone making it through here without being punished. Regardless if you start stealing your own food or not, eventually, they will make up a reason to beat you.”

Kratos, with the fresh display of cruelty across Atreus’s body mere inches away, had no reason not to believe him. “You do not need to steal for me any longer. You should not have to take care of me.”

Atreus closed his eyes for a moment. Kratos was not sure what it meant. “All I ask is that you only do so when strictly necessary. And learn your lesson from me. Do not be caught, and if you are, make sure you hide what you have in your robes. If you can lie your way out of it, then they will be none the wiser. Have you been told the story of the brave Spartan boy and the fox?” Kratos shook his head. “There was a boy who stole a live fox and kept it inside his tunic. When he was suspected of stealing, he spoke to the soldiers who caught him, and nearly had them convinced that he had been doing nothing out of the ordinary. That was, until, he fell over dead and the fox ran free. It had bitten him to death and he had been so disciplined that he had not even winced a single time.” They shared a silence. “I would advise you not to do that, either.”

Unable to help himself, Kratos felt his lips tug at the corners, itching to smile. He pressed them tightly together in a valiant attempt to fight it. Atreus, knowing well what he was doing, chuckled.

They remained that way for a long time after they finished their bread. The breeze was warm and pleasant. Atreus’s herd was off training, leaving them relatively alone. It was Kratos who spoke next. “Did you cry?”

“When they whipped me? Gods, no. If you so much as moan, they’ll flog you each night until you have no more tears to shed.” Kratos made a noise of acknowledgment but did not expand upon his question. Atreus attempted to fill in the blanks, which was unappreciated. “Why, do you not trust that you would not cry?”

Kratos looked down his nose at him, offended. Atreus was, however, correct. After seeing what had been done to him, he was unsure if he would be able to handle it so gracefully. “No. I only underestimated your strength.”

Atreus simply made a noise as if he did not believe him. Again, they shared a comfortable silence, Kratos hugging his knees to his chest. He hoped dearly Atreus would heal without complications. He had no one else here. Even if he were to kindle new friendships, no one could care for him as deeply as Atreus had, far too hardened by the state. He worried the inside of his cheek between his teeth. He had taken his companionship for granted. Much time would be needed for Atreus to recover— _if_ he recovered. They would not be able to train. He was unsure how the state handled hearers who lost their inspirers. Would he be reassigned? Or would he be expected to train on his own with no one to guide him? Kratos wanted neither option. Fixing his attention back to Atreus, he found his bleeding had ceased. He rested with his eyes closed, the only reason Kratos doubted that he had fallen asleep was the small smile that graced his features. Enjoying the company. Regardless, Kratos needed to return. They had been granted free time, but training would commence any moment now. They were sparring, hand-to-hand. After checking to confirm they would not be seen, Kratos bent to press his lips to Atreus's own. By convention, this was not something hearers did with their inspirers. That had not exactly stopped them before. Atreus's eyes opened as he pulled away. He licked his lips, dry from the heat.

"What brought that on?" He sounded surprised, but not angry. Kratos brimmed with something rather gratifying. Atreus clearly trusted him to only do that if they would not be seen. He remained relaxed on his mat and did not lift his head to double-check their surroundings. 

"In case I do not see you again. I have to go back." His voice was grave, he dropped his eyes to the ground between them.

Atreus laughed heartily, immediately hissing through his teeth at how it jostled his wounds. “By the gods…  _Kratos_ , I am not going to die. I am to resume training tomorrow. If they thought me useless, they would have tossed me onto the hillside and not my bed.” Kratos, feeling rather silly, looked to him again. If Atreus had confidence in his recovery, then perhaps he had nothing to worry about. He did not know how to respond. Atreus reached for his hand. Kratos let him squeeze it tight. “I will be fine. That is a promise. Now, run along, you do not want to be late. They will not hesitate to put you in your place right alongside me.”

Kratos stood and read the position of the sun. He would not be late. Regardless, he turned and left, following the river back upstream to where his herd was gathered for training. Mere moments before they were to begin, he overheard a few boys whispering plans to steal food from a home in the coming days. Noticing him, they asked if he wished to come. He was skilled, they said, observant, and sure to keep them out of trouble. They would split whatever they were to take. Determined to be true to his word, he agreed.

~

Early morning met them with promise. Despite the frigid moan of the wind, it carried no snow. Levithan hung heavy in its hook on Kratos’s back, blade sharp enough to slice a hair. He watched as his son warmed up his bow, firing shot after shot into the abused trunk of a tree. He sat against the house, their hunting knives laid out side by side in the snow for him to sharpen, whetstone ready and waiting in his palm. He looked down, tearing his focus away from the boy to begin. Atreus would arrive soon. Today they were hunting. Together, as a group. Adding another pair of eyes and set of hands would, Kratos hoped, prove to be useful. He listened to snow crunch under his son’s feet as he moved this way and that, making several sound effects to pair with his volleys. They would likely face no battle. Kratos did not care to correct him. The weather had taken a turn, a storm forcing them indoors for several days and postponing their hunt. It would do him good to burn off some the excess energy.

“He’s here!”

The boy’s voice brought his eyes up from the whetstone and to the gate. Atreus stood by, his dory in hand and his smile listing, waiting as the boy trotted to see him. Though Kratos turned his eyes back to his task, there would never come a day where this did not please him. To bear witness to the joy Atreus brought to their home and his son. He raised the blade as if to check its point, though his eyes focused past it, onto where Atreus bent to capture the boy in a hug. He squeezed tightly before he released him, patting him affectionately on the head. “Good morning! I see I have kept you two waiting, you must forgive me—” Kratos fondly observed as his son pretended to be annoyed, and ducked out from under his touch to fuss with his hair. When he looked back to Atreus, he found him staring, his smile gone from casual to brilliant. “Or is it I who must forgive you, Kratos? You do not seem quite prepared.”

Kratos averted his eyes to check the point of his knife against his thumb. It would do. He put it away in its sheath and got his feet beneath him to stand. The whetstone was left in the snow to be retrieved later. He held out the boy's knife by the blade, who jogged over to retrieve it. He checked over his father’s handiwork briefly, then left them to pull his arrows from where they had been buried into the bark. Hurriedly, he placed them one by one into his quiver. “We are ready.”

They traveled North, through the gate and into the woods, the well-worn path that Kratos had taken hundreds of times. The path he had taken his son on to prove himself prepared. It was a strange feeling to look back on his emotions then, how he had doubted his every move. How he had sincerely believed him never to be ready to fulfill his mother’s dying request. He had believed his anger out of control, yet to see it at its worst. In retrospect, it had not been very long ago, though it felt like ages. Silently, they crept through the snow, the air so cold it felt as if it could burn. It stung in his nose and throat, a sharp and inescapable knife. Mimir dangled at his hip, Atreus to his right, his son mere paces ahead of them, bow in hand as he hopped through the deep snow. For quite some time, they continued on, keeping their focus on the woods around them, waiting for the first sign of life. They found nothing. Kratos lead them off the path, delving deeper into the woods in hopes of finding an animal that had sought shelter from the weather. Their footsteps were deafening in the quiet, the crunch of the snow the only sound for miles. As time passed, they became more lax. Kratos remained in the lead, Atreus and his son lagged behind, sharing a quiet conversation. One of which they must have believed him beyond earshot for. He was not. Though he kept his mind fixed on their goal, he spared some attention to listen, curiosity getting the better of him.

“How are you not afraid of him?” His son’s voice was a skeptical whisper. Kratos could do nothing to prevent how it tore at his heart. The question implied that his son was afraid of him. That he had always been. Perhaps he was frightening when he raised his voice—which he seldom did. Perhaps he was frightening when slaying monsters that tried to bring them harm. He would like to think that it was not a constant air he exuded, one that was threatening enough to cause his own child to fear him. If he ever had, he would imagine now was a time where he no longer did. 

Atreus feigned innocence. He listened on. “Of who?”

“You know who _.”_ There came a beat of silence, in which Kratos imagined was occupied by the boy gesturing ahead and to his father. “ _Him_.”

“Hah!” Atreus laughed. In his mind, Kratos could see the delighted sparkle in his eyes. “Me? Afraid of your father? He is all bark and no bite. There is nothing scary about him.”

“I’ve seen his bite. It’s pretty scary.”

“Ah, well. I do not think he would ever bite _you._ Or me, for that matter.”

The boy was silent for a moment, then he said, “I guess not, but it’s kind of impressive how you stand up to him.”

“Are you talking about the spear? That was nothing. Perhaps I do not fear him since I oversaw his discipline.” Laughable. Atreus’s form of punishment was deep-rooted disappointment. In some twisted way, it was far worse than any beating Kratos could have received. “Do you fear him? Is that why you’re asking?”

“I used to,” said the boy, very honestly. “Not anymore.” Kratos breathed deeply with relief. He knew it did not go unnoticed by the head. He was grateful that he made no comment or inquiry. “People don’t really get onto Father like that. I was just surprised when you did.” The dwarves were persistent, Freya had threatened him with every fiber of her being. No one their journey had forced them to encounter had treated Kratos as if he were a child. It raised no question that the boy found it worth mentioning. 

“That is good, then! There is no reason to fear him. Underneath it, I believe he is softest out of all of us here.” The boy made a doubtful noise, something between a grunt and a laugh. Atreus made a similar sound back at him. “Ah, you doubt me, but you have yet to see it for yourself. Give it time, he is a complicated man.” They lapsed into a brief silence, Kratos believed their exchange over until Atreus added on, tender and quiet. “I think he would be very pleased to know you are not afraid.”

“It’s okay. I think he knows.” Kratos supposed he did. Things were very different between them now. He did not know why the question had bothered him so deeply. He had strived for his son to dislike him. He had neglected him, ignored him. He took care of him from a distance, something a child could not understand or appreciate. It had been meticulously planned. Purposeful. Though the boy always sought his attention, Kratos had turned a deaf ear and blind eye to him. He had done so his entire life, beginning the moment he was born. Atreus had been relentless in his quest to earn his father’s affection and approval, asking to accompany on his hunts, showing him the things his mother had helped him craft. His fear had swallowed him whole, that the boy would become him if he took any part in raising him. Instead, he took every measure to not. He did not know how else to handle it. Faye had spoken very little of it to him. Now he understood why. Though he had poured his efforts into raising a son that despised him, that feared him, that would not be how fate would have it play out. The lives and roles he had planned for them had been destroyed the day Faye passed. He would not have it any other way. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Always. What is it?”

There was a long pause as if the boy regretted his words. Atreus did not push him. Finally he said, “Father’s never happy. He never smiles. I thought maybe with you around he’d be different.”

There came the sound of Atreus patting his son on the back. He chuckled. “He is happy.”

“He is? How can you tell?”

“You must not look at his mouth. Look at his _eyes_.” 

Sounding utterly confused, his son sought clarification, “His eyes?”

“Mm. He is not as difficult to understand as you may think. With time, you will understand him just as well as I.”

Kratos purposefully slowed his pace, forcing the gap between them smaller. That was more than enough talk of him. As he had hoped, his son and Atreus fell quiet as they caught up. Likely in order to prevent rousing any suspicion, the boy asked, “So… do you ever miss Sparta?”

“ _Boy._ ” It was a private matter. Despite Atreus’s eagerness to answer every question, it did not mean his son could find answers to whatever he wished. As he rounded up the words to say it, Atreus laid a hand on his arm, the touch meant to pacify. Though Kratos shrugged him off, he said nothing.

“No, no, that is a reasonable question! It was my home, and it was not an easy decision to leave it.” He dropped his hand to his side, fingers trailing down Kratos’s arm in the process. The touch brought Kratos to turn to him. Atreus met him with eyes sad and tired. _Or you,_ is what Kratos imagine he would've said had they been alone. “Sometimes I think I do, yes. Though it is hard to say. There were many things about it that I loved and there were many things I did not. I can tell you that I do not regret it. I am far happier here."

“So you weren’t happy before?”

“It had its ups and downs, I suppose, but I much prefer a peaceful life.” He smiled down at the boy, and the boy returned it with a grin of his own.

Kratos, wanting nothing more than to finish what they had come to do and return home, said, “That is enough conversation. If we are to find anything, we must be quiet.” His son’s response was immediate, a long-forged habit.

“Yes, sir.”

They continued on. Both Atreus and his son trembled against the sweeping snow. It clung to their clothes and hair, bright against their dark pelts. They needed to find something soon before the chill forced them to stop and build a fire. With all the wood available to them exposed to the elements, it would be impossible, soaked through from the snow and ice. It was a comfort, however, not to be hindered by enemies. Between freeing the Valkyries and the Desolation wiping out most humans, the amount of Draugr had dropped significantly. Kratos could not remember the last time they had faced even ogre or troll, the cold either killing them off or driving them away. If Fimbulwinter had brought any good, it had been that. Hunting now required no defense, no hungry creatures to steal a kill. It certainly lessened wasted time, which was a precious commodity in these temperatures. 

Minutes trickled past with nary an animal to be seen, the boy spoke again with Atreus, keeping their tones no louder than a murmur. Kratos did not have the heart to tell them to be silent for a second time. Instead, he listened, a sense of fondness curling warm in his chest. “So,” he began, “have you seen anything yet that you don’t know the word for? Since we’re out of the house, I think it’d be a good time to help you.”

“Ah, perhaps, but your father is right. It is best that we remain silent. I am sure being your size you feel the cold twice as intensely as I do.”

The boy hid his dejection well, keeping his voice cheery, “I mean, maybe? It won’t take very long for me to tell you, just point it out to me if you see something.” Kratos reached to take the boy by the shoulder, urging him along.

“I believed he was to come to you? Do you not trust him?” Before his son could answer, Atreus spoke.

“That is very kind of you, but I think I will be fine! I know what most things are, it is ideas I struggle with.” He scratched the stubble at his chin, fingers discolored from the cold. “Concepts which were common in Greece, but not here. Things there are no words for. Does that make sense?”

“Oh,” said the boy, sounding embarrassed, “yeah, it does. Sorry.”

Atreus rested an arm across the boy’s shoulders, and on top of Kratos’s hand. He retracted from the touch, afraid to let himself indulge. “There is nothing to be sorry for! You were trying to help. I thought it was quite considerate.” He looked to Kratos and raised his brows. “Don’t you agree?”

Instead of answering, Kratos shot out an arm to block them from moving forward. Silently, he motioned ahead of them, where a fox pranced in a snowdrift. It was a considerable distance away, upwind and foraging for food, its hunger a distraction from its surroundings and therefore from them. Slowly, Kratos turned to Atreus, his voice a quiet rumble. “Can you hit it from here?”

“No.” His dory was heavy and long, built for thrusting.

Kratos thought occasionally of how he had he had missed the deer the day they found each other. It was a wonder how he hit anything at all, throwing it like that. Regardless, they had a hunt to finish. He banished his wandering thoughts. With a hand on his son’s back, he pushed him forward a little, then knelt beside him in the snow.

“Can _you_ hit it?”

The boy wet his chapped lips, drawing an arrow from his quiver. He notched it and lifted his bow, closing an eye to aim. After taking a few moments to judge the distance, he said, “I think so.” 

“Good. Remember, foxes are swift. You must be quick, anticipate its next movement and be ready—”

“I got it,” the boy interrupted, shrugging his shoulders in a silent plea for his father to give him space. Kratos did not budge, hands hovering uselessly at his back as he crouched behind him. His son breathed in deeply, focusing on his target. Just as he was readying his aim, Atreus laid a hand on his shoulder, breaking his concentration. He craned his head to look up at him, brow knit, confused as to why he had been stopped.

“Give me your bow.”

The boy turned to look at his father, baffled, Kratos did not return his gaze, choosing instead to keep his eyes on the animal. If it ran, they would surely lose it. “Do as he says.” Without a word, he obeyed, passing both his bow and the arrow to Atreus, who immediately brought it to eye level, peering down the shaft as he aligned his shot. He released his grip on the string. The arrow whistled faintly through the trees. It struck. The fox yelped loud and fell, the red of its fur like blood against the snow. He returned the bow to the boy before jogging past them to retrieve their kill. Kratos and his son followed. They reached him just as he pulled the arrow from the barrel of the fox’s chest. He handed it tail-first to the boy, who had no words of praise. He dropped the arrow over his head and into his quiver then turned to lead the way home. He threaded himself through his bow like a piece of twine through a needle.

They ventured home. With little warning, the weather grew worse. The temperature, though it felt impossible to get any colder, plummeted. Both Atreus and his son shivered as the wind whipped them with feverish cruelty, showering them with thickening snowfall. Kratos could tell that his son’s mood had soured, though he tried to hide it. This was a lesson Kratos had learned the hard way as well. If the boy did not appreciate anything, it was a liar. Harboring suspicions against Atreus proved worthwhile. Life for a Spartan was centered around combat. Weaponry. It would have been an impressive feat for him to forget.

“So you definitely could have split my arrow in half,” said his son, sudden and loud over the sound of the storm. He sounded angry, betrayal weaved his words as if they were a basket.

"Ah," Atreus stammered, had his hands been free, Kratos imagined he would have touched the back of his neck. Instead, he adjusted his hold on the fox, limp over his shoulder. " _Definitely_ is questionable. Could I have given it a more honest attempt? Absolutely."

The boy was hurt. He did not look to Atreus as he said, "Then why didn't you?" His voice was nothing more than a disappointed mumble. Atreus forced them to stop, rounding in front of the boy and dropping down on his haunches. Kratos could almost feel how Atreus itched to touch him. He had always been incredibly affectionate, physical contact was something he thrived on. Therefore it came as no surprise when he laid down his kill along with his dory in order to take the boys hands in his. Kratos waited for his son to pull away from his grip, but he did not.

"Because you wanted to teach me, and I wanted to learn."

"But you already knew."

"I did, and I apologize for leading you to believe otherwise."

The boy laughed, humorless. "I guess you should have been the one doing the teaching."

"Oh, no,” Atreus said, shaking his head.” I saw you. You've been taught well. I am sure there are things even you could teach a seasoned archer."

"Really? You think so?"

"I do!" He smiled, the boy returned it, albeit weakly. "I promise I will be honest with you from now on. Am I forgiven?"

The boy nodded and Atreus squeezed his hands tight before standing, replacing the fox over his shoulder and his dory in his hand. Again, they began to walk. The quiet between the four of them was thick. Kratos waited for the head to break it and change the subject, yet he did not so much as make a sound. Atreus kept pace at his side, while the boy ran ahead several yards. Neither of them seemed to wish to speak anytime soon either. Kratos on a rare and charitable decision, took it upon himself to. “I did not expect your aim to still be so sharp.”

Atreus looked to him, brow drawn and smile crooked. “Me? Why would you think that?”

“The doe in the woods. You lacked accuracy.”

“Ah, yes,” Atreus spoke as if there was some grand secret Kratos did not know, “but I did not miss. I meant not to hit her.”

“Is that so?” Even to his own ears, Kratos could hear the uncertainty in his words. Atreus rapped his arm with his knuckles, playing as if he were offended. With the dory in hand, there was not much else he could do.

“Yes, it is so! Once I saw your axe raise, I wished only to scare her away. I was afraid if I made the kill, you would take her from me. I planned to simply track her again. Though I did not realize who you were at that point. When I did, the last thing I had on my mind was a deer.” Kratos grunted, a verbal cue that he had been listening. Atreus must have mistaken it for more doubt because he chuckled nervously. “But I must say this spear was not built for throwing. It is no javelin, that is for sure.”

They returned home in silence, skin frozen and numb, clothes damp with snowmelt. Having come upon no additional opportunities to hunt, it left them only the fox to skin, which Kratos set about doing as soon as they came upon the gate. Atreus crouched next to him, holding its limbs open so he could run his knife down its belly, splitting it open in one clean line. The fur was thick, warm, and beautiful. Though with the snow battering their backs, Kratos had little wish to expend the effort to save it. He took no care in removing the hide. The boy, cold and harboring a grudge over Atreus’s dishonesty, did not stay with them. Instead, he took Mimir from his father’s belt without a word and carried him past the fence and into the house. Clenched around the fox’s forelimbs, Atreus’s hands shook, fingers noticeably stiff. Kratos sighed.

“Go.”

“I am fine.” Atreus wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic. “This will not take long.” Kratos, ever pliable, said nothing more of it. Atreus continued as he peeled the hide from the muscle. “I did not mean to make him angry.”

“He does not take well to dishonesty.” The boy would come around given time. All things considered, he had handled his anger exceptionally well. Kratos had taken the brunt of it many times, he had seen himself reflected in his child’s rage. Today, however, had been minor to an extreme degree. Atreus had yet to see anything. Hopefully he would never. 

Kratos took all he could from the fox, every scrap of meat precious. Once he had finished, Atreus discarded the scraps into the woods and joined him for the short trip back to the house, eager to settle where it was warm. The wood creaked under their weight as they passed through the door jamb. Logs popped in the pit, warm and welcoming. The boy must have restarted the fire, leaving the house to smell thicky of woodsmoke, which rose lazily to escape out the vent. They shed their weapons at the door. After, Kratos kicked back the skin rug to climb beneath the house, stowing away the majority of the meat. He kept the ribs in hand. Dinner. Their basin of water was frozen over, needing to be broken through before he could ladle water into a pot for them to boil. Unable to help, Atreus wandered his way to the boy’s bed, where he sat cross-legged in a dry tunic, his boots wet and turned over on the floor. Atreus bent to set them upright and out of the way. 

“May I sit?”

The boy glanced up from what he was doing, his journal open in his lap. Drawing, most likely. If Kratos had a guess, it was likely scenes from their hunt, centering on the fox. The boy memorialized their kills often. Though he seldom thought of the boy's abilities, he wondered if there existed a connection. To intimately understand the pain of a living creature must be difficult, especially when its death was at his hand. It was no help that he was emotional, sensitive. Perhaps he drew in gratitude, to cope with the lives they had to take. “Sure.”

Atreus shrugged out of his cloak before sitting, folding it over and tossing it onto Kratos’s bed. It was rather casual, perhaps too much for comfort. Kratos paid it no mind. The boy would think nothing of it. Where the head was concerned, it did not matter and  he should not let it bother him. Mimir already knew the truth. If he had not yet told the boy, he likely would never. It was an unspoken favor for which Kratos was forever indebted. “What are you drawing?”

“The fox. From today.” The words came at a distance, whether from concentration or anger Kratos could not tell.

“You are extremely talented. Your father was never one for the arts. Did your mother teach you?”

The boy, to Kratos’s surprise, actually looked away from his work. “Not really. I’ve always just kinda done it.” He thumbed the pages in thought before asking, “I thought Sparta focused on war?”

“It did, but as children we were taught songs and dance. It was never your father’s favorite.” The idea had the boy giggling to himself, Atreus lighting up at the prospect of repairing the damage he had caused. He exchanged a hopeful glance with Kratos, who otherwise gave no reaction. “I suppose that is quite strange to imagine, isn’t it?”

The boy nodded his agreement. “Yeah. I can’t imagine father singing, let alone dancing. Mother sang a lot, though.” His tone was nostalgic for times not so distant. Kratos had heard her in the light, a song he had thought he was never to hear again. Still, he could remember the way his heart had lurched at the sound of her voice. Home was not quite the same without it. “Did you really have to do that, Father?”

“Unfortunately.” His response dredged a genuine laugh from his son, one he muffled with his hand. Kratos looked to him in surprise, and then to Atreus, who smiled widely at him. He could not recall a time he had earned such a reaction. That being so, he was not quite sure what to do with it now. It did not matter. As if it had never happened, the boy continued his conversation, the half-drawn fox in his journal forgotten in his lap. Kratos brought a stool from the table to the fire and sat.

“Do you remember any of them?”

“Oh, I am ashamed to say I do not! As many times as they had us perform, you would imagine that between your father and myself, we could string something together.”

“Regardless of if I did, we would not,” said Kratos, his words a grumble. Relief did not begin to define his emotion when those lessons had ended. If Sparta sought to publicly humiliate its upcoming finest, he had rather it be wrought with whips or stones. Atreus, naturally, had enjoyed it. When they had spoken of it, he had laughed and laughed at Kratos’s expense, wishing dearly they had been the same age so he could have borne witness to it. After all these years, it seemed that had not changed, though he was slightly more polite, hiding his chuckles in his fist.

“The smartest man alive wouldn’t happen to know any, would he?”

“Hah!” Mimir’s mirth was sudden and loud, the dim golden glow from the table disappearing entirely as he closed his eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t! Though if I did, I doubt you’d want to hear any of it. I’ve been told Huginn and Muninn crow prettier than I do.”

Briefly, they laughed. Then, Atreus turned his attention back to the boy's drawings. “Do you have anything else in here you can show me?”

“Um. Yeah, I've drawn a lot of animals lately.” He flipped back a page. “Here's some.”

Kratos, trusting his son's hesitance had stemmed from his intention to keep their journey a secret, tuned them out. He let them be until the meat had finished. They ate around the pit, the fox tough. Despite the fact, it was exceptionally better than nothing. The wind rattled the door. As they supped, Atreus lifted his eyes, his attention directed at Kratos. “The weather is worsening and it is late. I think it is no secret that we all are tired…” Kratos knew what he wished to ask.

“You may stay.”

The boy lifted his head, a fox rib in his mouth as he spoke, “You're gonna stay the night?”

Atreus laughed, the bones of his meal picked clean. “I suppose I am.” He reached to shake Kratos's hand in gratitude. “Thank you. I will remember this.”

“That is not necessary.”

“But it is!”

The boy interrupted them, excitement dancing in between his words. “It’s fine! You can sleep in my bed.” He spoke with a sense of finality, nothing short of manner-of-fact. It was to leave no room for argument, though Kratos and Atreus exchanged a brief glance. Several moments passed, ones in which Atreus stammered, buying time for Kratos to jump to his aide. If they were to share a bed tonight, they would need a believable excuse. 

When none came, he said, “Ah, well…” and looked to Kratos, who offered him no support. “I would feel absolutely terrible if I took your bed from you. I am sure your father won’t mind sharing.”

“But—”

“That is enough,” Kratos said suddenly, voice louder than he meant for it to be. He could feel the head’s eyes on him, the dim glow crawling like scarabs on his skin. “He is to sleep with me. You will stay in your bed. Just because he is here does not mean we will go out of our way to make him comfortable.” Kratos was not ignorant to the irony of the situation. They _were,_ in fact, going out of their way to make him comfortable, to convince his son it was no strange matter for him to share with a man the bed he had with his wife.

For show, Atreus complained under his breath. “Always the hospitable one.”

“Okay,” said the boy reluctantly. 

The head chipped in, his voice a chipper call from the table, “You’ve got to remember they were _Spartans_ , lad. They’ve had worse sleeping arrangements, I’m sure.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

Atreus nodded, sharing Kratos’s gratitude toward their bodiless companion. “Yes, we did. I think I failed to mention that we had no proper bed. No furs to keep us comfortable. No pillows for our heads. All we were allowed was a mat woven out of reeds pulled from the river. We had to pull them with no knife, by hand.”

The boy’s face brimmed with awe, he shifted to sit up on his knees, eyes bright. Kratos wondered if he thought back to the red root he had tried to pull for the witch. How he had struggled and failed until Kratos had offered him his lost knife. The same knife he had used so cleverly to save his life. If he had not noticed it fall, then he would not be sitting here. It was strange how such small incidents could be of such importance. He tried not to dwell. “What about when you went to war?”

“In war, sleep was not often an option, and if it was, we still were made to sleep on the ground. If we were not in wartime, then we lived in barracks with the other soldiers.”

“So you all had to share beds?”

“Ah, no, not necessarily.” Atreus laughed, breathy and nervous.

“Oh.” Kratos stood, gaining his son’s attention. He considered him a moment before reaching down, pulling the boy to his feet. “Does this mean it’s time for bed?”

“Yes.”

“Aw, but we're talking—”

“You can talk tomorrow.” He needed to get his son situated while the house was warm enough for rest. The last thing he wished to wake to was the boy wedging himself between them for warmth. He did as he was told, climbing into bed without further fuss. Atreus stepped forward to straighten out his messy nest of furs and quilts, something Kratos never bothered with. There was no need. They would end up in a similar tangle by morning. Despite that, he did not dare say anything. The sight of his son being treated so tenderly was something he had never expected to see again. He was very glad to have been wrong. Atreus patted the boy on the head and exchanged farewells before slipping into the other bed. Kratos followed suit, giving no answer to his son’s meek “Goodnight, Father” as he passed. For modesty, neither he or Atreus undressed. Beneath the furs, Kratos found his hand. Atreus held tight. Time passed. The wind raged against the timbers of the house, groaning in its efforts to remain upright. Atreus shifted to lean his head against Kratos’s shoulder, somewhat discreet if the boy happened to look over. Kratos squeezed his fingers. Atreus returned it, turning his head to brush his lips over his skin. 

“Father?”

Silently, Kratos’s chest rose and fell with a sigh. Atreus shuffled away from him, quick and silent. “What?”

“Can you tell me a story?”

“You are old enough to sleep without one.” Kratos realized belatedly that he had rejected his son out of embarrassment. Perhaps he had grown soft in Faye’s absence. In front of a man that had experienced the same brutal childhood as he, it was shameful how soft his own child’s life had been made. 

“But you told me one last time I asked. I’m not _that_ much older.” Indignation flooded his words. It was not often his father refused to humor his requests for stories. Kratos suspected some part of him knew it was only because they had company.

“Another night, then. Sleep.”

Under the bedding, Atreus patted him on the hip. He made a noise as if he were disgusted. “How can you stand to tell him no? Listen to him—he is practically begging.” Then, he dropped his playful tone, taking on something more soft and serious. “He is only young once, Kratos, enjoy this while you can. Give him a few more winters and he will no longer want to say goodnight to you, let alone hear a story.”

“Fine,” Kratos said, easily swayed. “Atreus will tell you one.”

“I believe he asked for _you_ specifically.” 

Kratos only grumbled, lifting himself up on his elbow. He rummaged his head for a story, finally settling on one he had yet to tell. "There was once a plane tree. A tree that bears no fruit. A traveler came upon it, tired and seeking rest. As he lay beneath it, he mocked it for its uselessness. He told the tree its only use was shedding its leaves upon the ground. The tree spoke in kind, telling the man he was ungrateful for his blessings, as while he had spoken harshly, it had provided him with shade he did not deserve."

"Trees can talk where you're from?"

"No. It is only a story."

Atreus made a noise to snare their attention. "Then what of the oak that delivered oracles? And when it was repurposed into a ship, it would warn the crew of impending danger?"

"Impossible. Did you ever hear it speak?”

Atreus scoffed at his satirical question, not bothering to answer it. "My mother used to preach that the rustling of oak leaves was the guidance of—of the gods."

"The gods were misguided. The head said it himself."

"I am not saying that their heads were straight on their shoulders. I am simply answering his question. I suppose it depends on who you ask. Do the trees here not speak?"

"Uh, no, not that I've ever heard." If they could, it would be within Atreus's grasp to hear them. "Thanks for the story, Father."

Kratos made a soft noise of acknowledgment. The house plunged into silence. Atreus once again rested his head against Kratos's shoulder, lacing their fingers. Together they waited. Once the boy had gone still and his breathing deepened, he turned onto his side. “I have been thinking.” Kratos looked to face him. Atreus spoke in a soft whisper, as if he were ready to disclose a secret. “I know we have lost decades we will never get back and you have suffered an amount I cannot begin to understand, but I am glad for what I did.”

“Running,” Kratos said, filling in for clarification.

“Mm. You would not have had this. _Him._ If you had come with me.” It was true. Kratos had thought it over a hundred times. Had he known, there would have been no question that he would have abandoned his men to follow Atreus northward. He thought a moment about arguing. He would not have needed this, a second chance at building a life, had he left Sparta so young. Long before he had cheated death and paid the price. The words died in his throat. He had loved Faye with all he had. The events of his life had broken him, but he had found healing. Was still finding it. The opportunity to become a father again made his pain worthwhile. He would trade this for nothing.

They were silent for a long while. Atreus brought his hands between them to curl his fingers into Kratos’s beard. Kratos lost track of time. The fire cast adequate light to see the adoration written in Atreus’s expression, something Kratos had yet to understand. After all he had done, this man still deemed him worthy. Of his love, his time, his effort. He deserved none of it. There were several moments where Kratos prepared to be kissed. Now was not the time or the place, with the head and the boy so close by. Better judgment be damned, he knew he possessed no will to pull away.

“I cannot help but be reminded of how we used to speak, coming here. Between the boy and the house and the woods. I cannot believe how blessed we have been. I know you do not wish to hear of the gods, but selfish as it was, I used to pray that they would somehow bring you back to me. It seems that it does not matter how far you stray, they will still hear you.” They had come here because it had been premeditated. They had happened to settle so close only by chance. Kratos had not the heart to inform him. Instead, he let it be. The gods were monsters, as was he. To be worshipped by mortals was foolish and absurd. Atreus must have sensed Kratos growing uncomfortable, as he backpedaled from the subject. “Again, I know you will have none of this, but your son reminds me much of you. I did not say how when I first told you. He is brave and confident, just as you were at his age. You spoke so highly of him, and I see you did not sell him short. You have raised him well.”

“That is Faye’s doing.”

“And I suppose she gave him your nose, as well? Regardless of how you feel, he is as much your child as he was hers. Give yourself credit where it is due.” Atreus spoke gently, consolingly, a hand on his arm. 

He was not fit to father a child on his own. He had done the best he knew how without Faye to guide him. Even still, Atreus hadn’t a clue as to how much his son had taken after him. His anger. His outbursts. The parts of himself he had hidden away, kept deep in the wilds and far from his son’s eyes. It had mattered little, all the time he had sent himself out to hunt. The rage was in his blood. The boy had learned it on his own, unknowingly passed on to him. He had carved the carcass of a troll, lost in it. He had sent an arrow into his father’s chest, gotten them stranded in Hel. Kratos hoped it was far behind them, that he had taught his son to harness it, put reins on it. Time would tell.


	5. Chapter 5

“Wait,” said Kratos, just as his son turned away from him, his arms stacked to his chest with wood. He bent to collect the halves of the log he had split, fitting them on top under the boy’s chin. “Go.” Kratos watched as he teetered through the snow, unable to look down and mind his footing. Once he reached the cover of the overhang where the snow was shallow, Kratos readied another and brought Leviathan down upon it. The splintering thunk rang across the barren land behind their home, stirred no creatures. He split three more by the time his son returned, shavings caught in the fur of his tunic. Without needing to be told, he began to gather them. They had spent their morning doing no more than this. Though it was tedious and mundane, it was necessary. In these times, they could only afford to do what they must to survive. Wood was a precious commodity. A fire was essential. 

The boy, having remained uncharacteristically quiet for the majority of the morning, spoke up. “Do you think he’ll actually find anything?” Kratos did not look away from his work, hefting his axe high over his head. He brought it down in a heavy swing.

“I do not know.”

Hands full, the boy shifted impatiently as his father stacked the wood in his arms. “I still think he should have taken my bow with him. He’s better at it than I am.”

“Nonsense. If he is so skilled, he can make his own. Or buy one,” Kratos said. He sat another log upright on its end. 

“So… we _might_ have to see Brok and Sindri?” The boy’s voice brightened. Kratos swung Leviathan and regretted his words. He had raised the boy’s hopes when he had not meant to. While it was not a difficult task, he took no pleasure in disappointing him. As he placed the last of what his son would be able to hold, he spoke. 

“No. That is all you can carry. Go.”

“But where else would he buy a bow?”

“That is a topic to discuss when you come back.” The boy groaned, turning away. Kratos carried on until he returned, dusting his hands off on his trousers. He bent to refill his arms.

“I’m back.”

Despite not looking, Kratos said, “I see that.”

“So we’re not going to see Brok and Sindri?” His words carried a note of disbelief, speaking as if his father knew nothing of where their equipment came. His temper flared, attitude dipping into something unpleasant. Kratos was no stranger to it. He could hear his upset, understood his inability to comprehend why his father would prevent them from seeing those they considered allies. Kratos did not blame him for it. But regardless of the varying degrees of his son’s displeasure, they would not. For precisely two reasons. The first of which being that Atreus did not require a bow. He had survived with his dory alone for decades, never required anything more. Second, Kratos held no desire to explain their new companion to the dwarves. The blue one was crass. Blunt. If given any reason to believe they were romantically involved, Kratos imagined he would display no hesitance to make note in front of his son.

“No. Your mother taught you to craft one, did she not?"

“Um,” Atreus began, suspicious. Unable to predict where such a question may lead. “Yeah, she did.”

“Good. Then you may help.” 

The boy wrinkled his nose in distaste. Kratos knew he wished to see the dwarves, that he missed them dearly. He perceived it unjust for his father to deny him a visit. Worse reasons existed for him to be unhappy. Kratos was simply glad he perceived _this_ as the worst of their problems. It was something a child _should_  take issue with, being unable to see his friends. Kratos much preferred to handle this than what else they’ve encountered. His mother’s death, Kratos’s distance, their troubling family history. It was rather refreshing to be faced with such a menial upset. They did not speak for some time, the pile in his arms reaching once more to his chest when he asked, “Okay, but what if that one breaks? Then can we go?”

Kratos sighed. A warning that his patience was soon to wear thin. When he looked to his son, he seemed no matter of discouraged, his expression tight with determination. “And how do you suggest we get there? The lake is frozen.” He was not entirely sure that it was, they had not seen it in quite some time. The water sources close to their home had long since been. It was likely safe to extrapolate. 

The boy narrowed his eyes, Kratos turned back to the wood, reaching for another log. “ _The_ _world tree_ ,” Atreus said, as if it were obvious. The _duh_ went unspoken, but Kratos heard it in his tone, smart and impolite. There was no simple way to tell the boy that he was done traveling. Whatever they needed, they could find within walking distance. More than anything, Kratos wanted his life to return to some semblance of normality before Ragnarök wrought whatever it was to bring. He had come to these lands with every intention to carry out life as a mere mortal. That included independence from magic. Between Faye’s axe and her stave, he had not accomplished his goal. Regardless of his wishes, it was of importance to teach his son of his godhood. It was no simple feat to lose hold of his own wishes. Selfish, he knew. Human blood brewed within both of them, and Kratos found it just as crucial to embrace.

With nothing else to say, they continued their task in tense silence. Eventually, the boy let his emotions go, the scowl smoothing from his features. “Can I ask you about something?” He sounded hesitant, his confidence nowhere to be seen. “While he’s gone?” Kratos felt his heart kick up in his chest, a trot to a gallop. He could only think of one reason the boy would need to speak with him strictly in Atreus’s absence.

“What is it?” Acting as if nothing was suspect, Kratos held his voice level. He carried on chopping firewood, unconcerned. Holding his facade steady as his mind whipped into a whirlwind, predicting a hundred questions the boy might ask. It spun an excuse for each. Simultaneously, Kratos backtracked, a feeble attempt to find where he had gone wrong, made himself obvious. What had he seen? They had kissed beyond the fence, held hands when they suspected the boy to be asleep. There had been a few mornings Kratos woke to find himself curled into Atreus’s chest. The boy had been asleep each time, closed up in the house. They were moments that brought Kratos little worry. Now, he rued every instance.

“I don’t want to make it seem like I don’t want him here because that’s not it, but… when is he going to go back home?”

Ah.

Why he had not been expecting this, Kratos was unsure. It had been days since they had gone hunting as a group, and Atreus was still yet to leave them. The weather had cleared. To his son, there was no reason for him to remain. However, beyond his company, it was much easier to manage a household with two adults. They traded chores: hunting, chopping firewood, preparing meals, managing their weapons. Not only did it grant him less worry, it allowed Kratos more time with his son, and if he were not home with him, then Atreus was. No longer was he left unattended. Not to discredit Mimir, while being no more than a head, was more than willing to watch over him. Unfortunately his state came with limitations. There was only so much he was capable of. Atreus could ensure he was fed, tend to him if he became injured. It gave Katos peace of mind and, though he would not be so quick to admit, he was also quite fond of their sleeping arrangements. 

“I do not know,” Kratos said honestly. Atreus’s departure was something they had yet to speak of. “Why do you ask?”

“Doesn’t he have a family? Someone to go back to?”

Kratos buried the blade of his axe into a stump and left it, piling what he had split into his son’s arms. “He did not tell you? He has no one here. We are all he has."

“He didn't find someone?” His son sounded surprised. Kratos understood completely. He had also expected Atreus to find love here, as well. To hang onto a man a world away was childish. Foolish. Or it would have been if not for their reunion. Still, it was. Neither of them could have foreseen this idyllic future. Atreus had been saving himself for a man he thought was not coming. Regardless of how he loathed the thought of Atreus dooming himself to loneliness, he was glad for it. Thankful. He was not sure if he could stand to see Atreus with another. It brought him minimal relief to know he had not been entirely on his own. He had frequented the village for many years and found company with its people. Whatever hopelessness he had felt when he had returned to its deserted skeleton Kratos could not picture. “You didn't have anyone when you came here, either, but you found Mother. He doesn't have a wife?"

"No. He does not have a wife."

"Oh. I was kinda hoping he had kids." The admission brought no shock. The boy desperately wished for companionship, something to fill the void she had left behind.

"He does not have those either." Leading the way, Kratos guided his son under the overhang to help him stow their wood. The wind hissed, the timbers of their home rattled yet did not give. When his father made no move to return to their work, the boy hopped up to sit atop one of the stacks. Kratos watched warily, untrusting that it would hold. It did. The boy crossed his arms, conserving warmth, and seemed to ponder something for a moment.

"Is he staying with us because he's lonely?"

"Hm." Kratos pretended to think. "I do not see what other reason there would be." Perhaps they  _should_  have told the boy from the beginning, explained themselves openly. Kratos's dishonesty added a messy layer of difficulty to the situation. Not only would he have to deal with the knowledge that Kratos had readily allowed a man in Faye's place, but that he had worked tirelessly to keep it from him. He imagined his lies would do far more damage than any shame he would bring the boy. Unfortunately, it did no good to second guess previous actions. There was no turning back now. All he could do was trust his decision and the rationale that had gone into it.

 "Yeah,” agreed his son, picking at where one of the logs splintered, “me neither. So do you think he's ever going home?" 

"I do not know. Do you wish for him to?" If the boy was already taking issue with Atreus’s extended visit, it spelled no good for the future. Naturally, Kratos would prefer if they were all happy in the end. That his son accepted them for what they were and made his peace with the fact that Kratos had been able to move on. He shook his head. 

"No. I like him being here. With us." It sounded genuine. The fact alleviated Kratos’s anxiety. He could feel where it began to peel up about the edges, the haze it had thrown over his mind lifting. Perhaps the boy had noticed nothing between him and Atreus. It was one less worry. For now. Still, he was curious of why his son was so keen on his absence. He pressed.

"Then why do you ask? That is twice now."

"I just…" The boy sighed and dropped his gaze to his father’s boots. Whatever this was, it was a reason he was not entirely willing to share. His hesitancy roused Kratos’s interest. He waited patiently for an answer. The boy kicked his legs, his heels bouncing off the wood. "Why can't he sleep in my bed?"

Kratos's heart knocked against his ribs. Did the boy suspect a romantic nature between them, after all? Was he not angry, but uncomfortable? Ashamed? Or worse, disgusted? He knew only of love between a man and woman. Anything but was unnatural to him. The blue one had spoken briefly of his feelings for the soul within the ring. Kratos feared it had gone over his son's head. "Are you bothered by it?"

The boy’s brow drew. His mouth twisted. Confused, he looked to his father for clarity. "By what?"

"That he has been sharing a bed with me."

"No. I mean, not really? It's just that you're both _big_. It can’t be comfortable.” Atreus, in actuality, was not that much larger than Faye. While certainly not lacking physique, he was lean. Always had been. Regardless, they slept so close that a blade of grass could offer enough room. The boy, however, did not seem aware of that. Kratos was thankful for it.

“If comfort is what worries you, then you do not listen. We slept on the ground for most of our lives. A roof is more than enough.”

“I guess.” Again, the boy would not make eye contact. Kratos was unsure if this was a subject he wanted to pursue. Against his better judgment, he did anyway. 

“Atreus.”

“I’m fine.”

Kratos fought the urge to ease down into a crouch. With Atreus’s position atop the logs, there would be no easy feat to compensate for their difference in height. Unable to do much else, he remained where he was, standing across from him, hands useless at his sides. “You are not yourself. What troubles you?” 

The boy hesitated. His heels thudded rhythmically against the pile. Then he spoke, his voice lost under his breath. As if Kratos was not standing mere feet from him, well within earshot. “His house isn’t that far away. Why does he have to stay here when he can just visit?”

"I thought you wished for him to stay?"

"I _do_." His son’s voice was urgent, firm. Ensuring his father believed him this time. His fret tearing his mind to shreds, Kratos wished for a complete answer. He tried to explain himself, why he had not made Atreus aware of overstaying his welcome, why he was of use.

"With the weather as it has been, we benefit from having another set of hands. And… it allows me time here." 

"Yeah." His son’s voice was flat, bland. Unlike him. It raised a question. 

"Would you prefer I not be here?"

"No. I want you here. I don't like when you're hunting by yourself." Kratos was unsure if it was due to the boy worrying for his safety or because he loathed being left alone. It did not matter. Whatever his reason, it was a welcome comfort that his son wanted him home. It eased the worry that he felt shame, was ready to cast his father away for something he could not control. Lamley, Kratos attempted to console him.

"It is what must be done."

"I know."

A thought struck him. Perhaps he was not the problem. Perhaps it was Atreus. Kratos’s blood ran cold, his mind readily feeding into horrors he had never considered. Sparta had encouraged men to form relationships with young boys, considered it a cornerstone. His son was reaching that age. Had Atreus taken it upon himself to play the role of inspirer all over again? Kratos took a deep breath in, clearing his head before he wound it into a knot. He trusted Atreus. As much as he had Faye, as he did his son. Atreus had hated Sparta’s practices. Being bred to take pride in his heritage did not stop his resentment for many of its traditions. So much so that he had risked death to escape them. While it was not something they often spoke of, Kratos felt confident in his assumption that included hearers and inspirers. Though he knew little of Atreus’s relationship with his own inspirer, what he did know is that it was not enjoyable. Despite how his logic consoled him, he needed to be sure. Atreus’s tone played in his mind, how it had sounded identical to his childhood when he’d taught the boy to wield a dory. Very carefully, he asked, "Do you not wish to be alone with him?"

“No. I like spending time with him. He tells me a lot of stories when you're not here.”

"Stories?"

"Yeah, he said not to tell you because you might not like them. They’re just about the gods and how different Sparta is from here. Or, I guess, _was_.” The boy dropped his head in shame, fessing as if of a great sin. Kratos could not begin to describe his relief. Though he was pleased they were getting along, he would soon request a word with Atreus about what knowledge he was passing on to his son.

“I see. Then tell me what troubles you.”

“Huh? Oh. Nothing's wrong, I was just curious.”

Kratos sighed. If that had been the case, the boy would have said so much earlier. "Atreus. I am—"

" _My father,_  I know." The boy did not elaborate. Kratos could not help but wonder if this was what it was like to speak with himself. He did not realize quite how _frustrating_ it was to receive such vague answers. Out of respect, he let it alone. The boy would speak when he was ready and not a moment before. Kratos, despite being caught between concern and intrigue, would push him no further. He had done so enough. Besides, there was no use in doing so, his efforts thus far proving fruitless. He gave a brief pause on the chance his son had more to say. He did not, only watching how his feet swung. They returned to work. Neither of them spoke. The only sounds between them were the thud and split of Kratos’s axe. Kratos attempted to clear his mind and focus, determined to finish so they could return to the fireside. Snow danced on the wind in an elaborate waltz. Finally, after a few more trips to the store, the boy spoke. “You were right.”

Kratos did not look up. "About what?"

"That something's bothering me." Grunting as he swung his axe, Kratos left it where it had wedged into the stump and bent to pick up the halves of the log. He passed them silently to his son, waiting for further explanation. "I don't like that he sleeps where mother used to."

So it seemed the problem did lie with Atreus, though it was nothing near as wicked as he had feared. Guilt plucked at his heart, playing it as if it were some twisted instrument. Atreus was a good man. Perhaps the best of the likes Kratos had ever met. He was ashamed to have thought of him so lowly. "She is gone, boy. It does not matter."

"But it's _her bed,_ ” the boy insisted, his voice straining up a register. He was passionate about many things, but he was most about his mother. Kratos felt a fool for not considering that this would be a problem days ago.

"It _was._  It is also mine. What if I married another? Would you expect her to sleep elsewhere?" He was testing the water, hoping to see how his son would react to the prospect of him finding love with someone else. The boy did nothing more than shrug. Kratos would not be surprised if he had dismissed the idea entirely, unable to picture him loving someone other than Faye.

"I don't know." His sighed. Sounded tired. "It's stupid." His hands shook where they cradled the wood. It was time for them to rest, seek the warmth of the fire in the house. Kratos also had not a word to say. It was not stupid. Childish, perhaps, but the boy was young. It was simply understandable. His mother had meant everything to him. 

“Put those with the rest. We have done enough for today.” He turned to comply, ready to be done with their chores. Kratos led him around the side of the house by the shoulder, keeping him close. Just as they were coming upon the door, movement drew his attention, a dark figure approaching. On instinct, he reached back for Leviathan, but it was only Atreus, returning from his hunt through the gate, his spear in hand. His free hand held a small bundle of fur. A squirrel, Kratos realized, as he approached. Snow coated him in a dusting of white. It clung to his eyelashes; where his stubble had grown, overdue for a shave; his hair.

“This was all I could find,” he said apologetically. “It is freezing. I cannot stay out as long as you.”

“It will do.” Kratos was grateful for whatever they had. He could not count the times he had come back from a hunt empty-handed.

“Did you finish what you wanted with the wood?”

The boy stood close to his father’s hip, Kratos’s arm around his shoulders. “We did. I need to speak with you. Boy, inside, now.” Not immediately heeding his father’s orders, he lingered at his side. He looked briefly to Atreus, then tucked his chin to his chest. Guilty. Kratos lifted his arm, a silent request for his son to hurry along. Taking the cue, he wandered to the door, his stride shuffling and slow. He glanced back before pulling it shut behind him, muffling Mimir’s cheerful greeting. Atreus leaned onto his spear. His hands shook. His body trembled. Kratos could see the tension in his jaw from where he fought against his chattering teeth. 

“Is he alright?”

“He will be.” Kratos stepped foot away from the house, past Atreus, and in the direction of the gate. Atreus sighed, almost inaudible over the wind in their ears. He left his dory against the side of the house and followed. His feet dragged, Kratos unable to hear the crunch of his footsteps. He imagined that he was spent. It was exhausting to trudge through the snow, shivering a drain of precious energy. “The boy told me you have been sharing stories with him.”

Atreus laughed weakly, falling into step at his side. “Is that such a surprise?”

“Ones I would not approve of.”

“Again—is that such a surprise?” The words were bright, spoken lightly and in good nature. Kratos could not help but feel fond, glad to have Atreus back home and out of the wilds. “It is nothing too personal, I assure you. He knows nothing of the things you would rather him not know. I have spoken only on a few gods and customs. You can trust me.”

“I know.” He did, even after all Atreus had done to deserve it broken, he could not help but cling to every word he spake. He was unsure if it was simply due to unconditional love or military conditioning. Boys were taught to have an unyielding faith in their inspirers. Perhaps it was a habit he would never outgrow. They crossed the fence. Kratos held out his hand for the squirrel, which Atreus handed over without question. His hands were far too unsteady to skin, had he tried he would only manage to cut himself. “The boy thinks it his fault I am upset with you.”

They knelt in the snow at the edge of the woods. Kratos began to skin. Atreus’s mouth twisted into a frown. “You are upset with me?” Kratos did not look up at him, reaching blindly for his hunting knife, eyes on their dinner. He made the first cut in the belly, then wormed his fingers inside, between the flesh and meat.

“No. He believes I am.” He pulled hard, the hide peeling like the rind of an orange. Atreus puffed warm air into his hands and rubbed them together, a futile attempt to curb the numbness. 

“About the stories.”

“Mm.” Using his knife, Kratos separated the skin from the muscle of the hind limbs. He flung the scraps into the woods and set to work on the front. He made no haste, saving as much as possible. “There is something else I need to speak with you about.”

“And what is that?”

“The boy wonders when you will return home.”

“I...” Atreus fell silent, Kratos spared a glance to him, finding his mouth pulled into a tight frown, eyes on the ground. “I see. Am I overstepping any bounds by staying here? It is no issue for me to go.”

“You are not.” Without a doubt, he knew Atreus would do anything possible to ensure the boy’s comfort. Even if it meant returning to a lonely life and an empty house. At his confession, Atreus laid a hand on him, it felt as if he’d packed snow against his palm. 

“As much as I would like to stay, I do not want to intrude. I know you do not feel that way, but perhaps _he_ does. I suppose we should have spoken about this sooner, you and I. And we should have told him that I would not be leaving.”

“It is not too late,” Kratos suggested, pulling the rest of the squirrel's hide up over its neck. He severed the head and tossed it away.

“Tonight, then. As a family.” The word set a soft warmth aglow in Kratos’s chest, its embers long forgotten. He had given up completely on the idea of family, had burned it along with Faye. She had given him a son and left them. It had effectively shrunk the concept down only to the two of them. He had been prepared for his bedside to ever remain cold and empty. Despite the promise of a complete household, he was unsure if this was a discussion he wished to have in front of Atreus. Wondered if it would be safer if left between himself and the boy. He feared an outburst, resistance. Shielding Atreus from his son’s temper took priority. He did not want him to realize what he had passed onto him, the anger. The rage. 

Soundless, his hunting knife carved through the belly of Atreus’s kill. He scooped out the entrails and tugged them free. “He is not fond of you sleeping where she used to lay.” 

“I suppose it will not be so simple to fix as us switching sides?” It had been a weak attempt at humor. Neither of them laughed. Atreus adopted a more serious tone. “That is understandable. It has been hers longer than he has been alive. He knows no different. We will have to give him time.” Kratos said nothing. He did not know if it was a wound time could heal. His son viewed the empty space as a memorial. Sacred. Proof she had walked with them for at least a little while. To allow it to be occupied would be to dishonor her, to disregard. Or at least that was how he imagined his son’s mentality to be. They spoke of her sparingly. In reality, he did not know—he could only guess. “Until he is ready, I can return home. I will still come to see you, things will not be much different—”

“No,” interrupted Kratos, taking his knife to the squirrel’s feet, “he must learn to move on.”

“You cannot rush grief, Kratos. I see patience is something you still need to practice—”

With a sense of finality, he removed the last paw and stood. “I did not ask you to lecture me.” Atreus followed suit, his arms crossed. Kratos was unsure if he was upset or keeping warm. He did not care. He turned away. Atreus caught him by the arm, pulling him back to face him. 

“No, you did not, but I do not care how many years you have lived. I am still your inspirer and you will listen to me.” He squeezed Kratos’s arm tight before dropping his hand away. Trying a different approach, he lowered his voice. “What is the matter? Are you afraid? Is that why you are acting this way?”

“It does not matter what I am.” Atreus breathed deeply. Kratos did not look to him. Gently, Atreus pried the kill from his grip. 

“Clean your hands.” Kratos complied, bending to gather a handful of snow. Cold enough to burn, he rubbed it between his palms, his fingers. The melt washed away some of the blood and grime. He did it once more. “Whatever your son thinks, he will learn to accept it. Everything will be alright, I swear to you.” Kratos, though he knew it was unwise to anticipate anything other than the worst, believed him. He could not let his son’s reluctance to let her go be an excuse for Atreus to slip through his fingers again. Leaving the scraps and his emotions behind, Kratos led them into the house. Later, over stewed squirrel, he came to a realization. Atreus had been correct. His son deserved the answer he sought. Kratos raised his eyes to meet Atreus's, who only reassured him with a subdued smile. Kratos took a preemptive breath and began to speak, his son sipping from his bowl. Together, they informed him.

~

Kratos lay on his mat, his herd in various stages of rest around him. Bugs droned. The river babbled, the noise ceaseless and soothing. It did nothing to lull him. He tossed and he turned, unable to find sleep. Atreus plagued his mind, how little he had seen of him since he had been placed in the barracks. Though it was a high honor, Kratos was not allowed in, nor was Atreus allowed out. They had not spoken in days. Jealousy crawled down his skin like sweat, yet all the same he longed to see him. Soon, Atreus would be sent to war. Kratos had dreamed of battle his entire life, long before he could lift a dory. He knew Atreus was not to fault for their difference in age, but it did nothing to settle his emotions. He surely could handle himself in battle between years of his inspirer’s training and the education the state provided. He was capable. Strong. Had he been allowed to prove himself, the elders would see.

It was not his jealousy what kept him awake, however. It was the ever-increasing fear that he would not see Atreus again. That he would be sent to war before they could find time to train, that he would return to him upon his shield to be laid in the earth. Until he was old enough to join the ranks, Kratos could not see to it that he was kept safe. Naturally, Atreus had many friends. He could only hope that they would be willing to lay down their lives before his. He trusted that Atreus would fight with all he had to come back to him. If that alone would be enough, he did not know. Their relationship, however, progressed by a rate Kratos had not been able to foresee. They were friends, he knew. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. They were close. They spoke at every chance they had, they trained as often as they were let if only for an excuse to see each other. Time spent alone in the woods entailed activities young Spartans were not permitted. They touched. Kissed. Kratos often questioned the state’s mindset on the topic. If Atreus was allowed and openly encouraged to seek pleasure between his thighs, then he saw no issue with doing more. Taking it further. The elders upheld a different view. It was unfair for only one of them to find pleasure. Something Atreus voiced often, an attitude Kratos had adopted, with minimal argument. There was no legitimate reason to reject his advances. It was enjoyable, and they had never been caught. If they were, Kratos did not know of any punishment severe enough to deter them.

He waited for a while longer, watching the moon creep across the sky after the stars. Something Atreus would come retrieve him to do on occasion, weaseling him away into the woods where they would not be seen. Yet another leisure they were not to enjoy, and the rule never discouraged them. The fact that Atreus now slept in a building and not on a mat of river weeds changed nothing. The rules were essentially the same. You were not to leave your herd after dark. You were not to leave your barracks after dark. Mind made, Kratos sat up, ensuring his peers slept or at least paid no attention to the movement. He stood slowly, stepping over the other children and out into the night.

The barracks stood tall in the moonlight, white columns, roof stained dark by shadow. Kratos held himself with confidence as he approached, there being nowhere to hide if an adult were to catch him. No one stood guard. He flattened himself to a pillar regardless, an attempt to remain unseen. He had no intention of being beaten tonight. They would likely beat Atreus as well, once they ripped his confession from his mouth like a broken tooth. He would do his best not to let that happen. 

Inside, they slept on beds of stone slabs. Kratos, for a moment, was grateful for his reeds. They _were_ gifted a roof over their heads, nothing was given without another being taken away. He was unsure which was preferable. It was a far cry from the beds of his home with his mother and Deimos. Linen blankets, pillows stuffed with wool, cloth mattresses packed with hay. It would be a comfort he would be worthy of again. Once he married, when he had served long enough to be worthy of a home again. It was difficult to think that far ahead. He would be twice his age by then. He walked down the rows of beds, trying not to feel out of place. If he were to be caught, poise would never hinder him. In the dark, he found Atreus more easily than expected, wrapped in a new cloak and curled in on his side, sleeping peacefully. He was unmistakable. Kratos could have found him standing a mile away with his back turned. Gently, as not to make too much noise, he shook him by the shoulder. “Atreus.”

He woke suddenly, sitting up, his hands pressed flat on the stone. Startled, he required no time to adjust from sleep to wakefulness. The low light made it impossible to read his expression. “Kratos? What are you doing here?” Anger bathed his words. Whispered harshly, they pierced the quiet. Distracted by his emotions, he did not check to see if he had woken anyone. Kratos did not bother either.

“I wished to see you.” He spoke the truth as if it were obvious. What other reason would he have to be risking his skin?

“How did you get in?” Atreus asked, throwing his legs over the side of his bed. His fingers dragged through his hair, pulling as they caught on knots. He seemed too distressed to care. Kratos could find no reason for him to be so upset. This was equally as forbidden as it had been when they both slept on the ground outside. “How were you not seen?”

“I saw no one outside. I would not have come if I did not think it safe.”

“It is _not_ safe! I may not be able to get you back out.” A boy two beds over roused with a groan, turning away to continue to sleep. Atreus looked over his shoulder to watch him, to make certain he had not seen. He pushed himself to his feet. Having grown much, he stood at least two heads taller than Kratos, who desperately wondered when he would catch up. “Come with me.” None too gently, Atreus led him out by the wrist. They moved as swift and as silent as cat’s feet. Kratos did not dare speak until they were out, the nighttime air pleasantly cool compared to that of barracks, where it warmed with the heat of too many bodies.

“I thought you were not to leave at night?” 

“I _am_ not to leave at night, but you give me no other choice.” Atreus tugged him toward the cover of the trees, looking back to ensure no one had caught sight of them leaving. “Come quickly before they see. I do not even wish to begin to imagine how severely they will beat us if we are caught. You are a fool, Kratos, and you are _lucky_. The elders usually come to check that we are behaving after dark.”

“It would not be the first time one of us is beaten at the other’s fault.” Kratos did not know why he had said such a thing. Now was not the time for him to play smart with Atreus. It was obvious he was in no mood for it. Regardless, he was the least intimidating of all the boys and men here. Pushing his luck was no real gamble. 

“What?” Just as they passed into the underwood, Atreus rounded on him, catching Kratos off guard and leveling a finger at his nose. Kratos brushed it away. Immediately Atreus replaced it, jabbed it into his chest. “No. Do not tell me you are putting yourself in harm’s way to get even. I was taking food for myself as well, I want you to remember that.” Beyond the cover of the trees, Sparta sprawled quiet over the land. Kratos said nothing, finding no sense in arguing. He dropped his head in both acceptance and submission. Atreus turned away from him with a heavy sigh. “Since we are here we might as well stay. Sit.” Atreus settled in the dirt, wiping his hands down his face in exasperation. Kratos did not comply, still unable to understand what he had done that had been so wrong. “I said _sit,_ Kratos.” He did, giving Atreus a foot of space between them. For a long time, they sat in a thick, uncomfortable silence. The moon had risen high by the time Kratos found in within himself to speak.

“I fail to understand why you are so angry with me. I thought I was doing no harm.”

Atreus’s response was quick and sharp. “I have explained to you why.”

Kratos weighed his options. He could either be quiet or seek answers. Hoping to improve Atreus’s mood and the little time they had, he chose the latter. “You used to come to me in the night. It was no different then. We would have been beaten just as badly if we were caught.”

Heaving a deep breath, Atreus tipped his head back, eyes roaming the stars, tracing constellations blocked from view. The leaves overhead shivered in the breeze. Kratos drew his robes around himself. “I do not mean to be this way.”

“Yet you are.” Kratos spoke it as a question, asking _why_ without having to utter the word. It was not a normal occurrence for Atreus’s temper to be worn so short.

Atreus dropped his head for a moment, finger scratching nonsense in the dirt. “If I tell you something, swear to me that you will repeat it to no one.”

Kratos shifted, concern clawed up his insides. Had something happened? He feared the news to come, the widening pit in his stomach telling him it was nothing good. He brought himself in front of Atreus, legs folded underneath him, ready to listen. There came no answers or explanations. Instead, Atreus took his hands tightly.

“Swear to me. Please.”

With his heart in his throat, Kratos answered in earnest. “I swear.”

Atreus could not look him in the eye. He laced their fingers, gaze fixed on where they joined. “I do not want to go to war.”

“You are afraid?” They were bred and raised for it. If anyone felt fear, they did not show it. 

“Terrified,” Atreus corrected, then he laughed sadly. “I should not be. What kind of Spartan am I? Afraid of battle.”

“They will not send you immediately,” Kratos said, his only aim to comfort. Atreus still had the last of his training to complete. Regardless, his words turned Atreus’s expression grim, his mouth pulling into a tight line. 

“They may if they grow short on men. They teach us to slaughter and to be slaughtered. It is no wonder there are not enough of us.” Atreus spoke the words as if they were a joke. Neither of them laughed. Though Kratos felt a thrill rush down his back like a pail of cold water. Would he get to go early? He felt prepared. The years between now and then were not enough to teach him much more than he already knew. There was only so much one learn with spear and shield. He sunk his teeth into his lip, gnawing it briefly in consideration. 

Giving in to his curiosity, he asked, “Does it happen often?”

“It is nothing worth celebrating. Many who are sent early do not survive long, I hear. My inspirer witnessed it himself, he is the one who told me.”

Kratos thought for a moment, then said, “If he has seen war, then perhaps you should speak with him about your fears.” As much as he did not care for the thought of Atreus confiding in another man, it was only a logical step. His inspirer had fought wars and knew them well, prepared Atreus for them. Surely his advice would ease his mind.

“Oh,” began Atreus, lips curling into a frown. Kratos had not seen a single smile from him tonight. “I suppose I never mentioned. He was killed not long after I was assigned to you. I was not close to him as we are.” Kratos had nothing more to say. He dropped his eyes from Atreus's. "I lost my father to it, as well. Perhaps that is why I am so afraid."

Parents were something that boys seldom spoke of here. Kratos, the idea of knowing his father lost upon him, found his interest piqued. "You knew him?"

"Barely. I do not have many memories of him. He was kind when he was home. He gave his life to Sparta when I was very young, before I came here. My mother told me he was a hero, saving many other men." Atreus, indifferent, shrugged his shoulders. He turned his face away, likely ashamed that he possessed none of his father's bravery. Kratos said nothing, and so they sat in silence. Finally, he offered words, though he was unsure of their purpose. 

"I do not know my father." Atreus looked to him, his eyes ringed and tired. A soft smile tugged his lips. It was a comfort to see.

"Is that so? I would not be shocked if you were to learn that he was a great man, as well." Figuring the heaviest topics of their conversation were out of the way, Kratos twisted his fingers out of Atreus's grip and moved back to his side. He sat close. Atreus rested a hand on his thigh, casual and intimate.

"I have never been lead to believe that he was not."

With a quiet noise of amusement, Atreus said, "I mean as in one of the men they teach us about in our history lessons. Another hero. Do you know anything of him?"

"No."

"Your mother never spoke of him?" Kratos shook his head. "Ah, well, it is just a feeling, then. A strong one." He dug his elbow into Kratos's ribs. Playfully, Kratos shoved him away. They settled into a more peaceful quiet. The tension eased from Atreus’s shoulders. His posture relaxed. Kratos, consoled by it, leaned into his side. They did not speak for several minutes.

“You do well,” Kratos began quietly, turning toward him, their faces inches apart. “Why are you afraid?” He felt Atreus’s breath puff warm against his skin as he answered.

“I do not want to kill, I suppose. It is hard to imagine taking a life.” Once his words had been spoken, he turned his face away. Even in the low light of the moon, Kratos could identify the pensive shame etched into his features, in his eyes. He sat up, resting his hands in his lap. Through the brush, his herd slept, made tiny with distance and dotting the riverbed like ticks.

“I thought you feared being killed.”

“I do,” Atreus admitted. He did not move, gaze fixed on something in the distance. Kratos could not identify what it was. “I am equally afraid of both.”

“Your enemies will not feel for you. Have you not killed before?” Atreus would be slaughtered like a swine at the first sign of weakness. His enemies would see him as an easy target. It was vital that he reign in his emotions and learn to let them go. He excelled in battle. Unfortunately, that meant nothing in the face of danger. All it took was a moment of hesitation for him to be struck dead. The thought alone pulled horribly at Kratos’s heart. 

“You do not know that for sure. Have you?” Finally, Atreus brought his attention back to him. Kratos, realizing he had no experience in bloodshed dropped his gaze to his lap, where he clasped his hands. 

“No. I am assuming you have not, either.” It was obvious he had not. Sensitive as a newborn babe, Atreus could not bring himself to seriously injure anyone. It was an odd quandary Kratos found himself working through. Atreus loved to train. He enjoyed it, laughed and smiled through both loss and victory. He treated weapons as toys and sparring as a mere game. In the years leading to this very moment, Kratos had always believed he would make a fearsome warrior. In his assumption, he was not alone. Others had thought it, as well. Boys and elders alike. He still could be. He had never been afraid before. It was a transition every young Spartan hoped to enter. He was stressed, tired. With time his outlook would turn.

“And you would be correct. Think about it, Kratos. They are men, just as we are. They feel, they have _families_ —”

“And they stand in our way.” Those that opposed them were only that. To humanize them was to lose a war before it had even begun. Kratos spoke it as nothing more than a firm reminder. Atreus bristled, having none of it. He believed that to abandon his sense of humanity was a shame, he had said so himself. 

“That is Sparta speaking through you.” 

Kratos simply sighed, feeling in this moment as if he was the inspirer between them. “Atreus. There is no escaping war.” Though Kratos greatly admired his positivity and his compassion for those around him, it would be his end. He would have to learn how to shut that part of his mind off, to be cold and unforgiving, to kill without hesitation and to heed what they had been raised to be.

“I know.”

“You are stronger than you know. When we train you make a fool of me.”

Atreus smiled fondly, Kratos imagined he was reminiscing. “I know, but it is very different out there from here.”

“The instincts you have been taught will take over. If it means anything, I do not worry for you.” It was a lie. Kratos fretted often over what would become of Atreus when he returned from war. Would he be the same? Most men were, the elders sure to beat all sense of morality from them before they left. Battle was an outlet. If anything, they returned in higher spirits. Atreus had not conformed, his soul and heart untouched. He was soft and gentle and everything the state did not want him to be. Kratos adored him for it. He did not want to see that part of him change. These hopes were made in the assumption that Atreus returned at all. If his sentiment struck him dumb, he would surely perish. Again, Kratos put his faith in the friends Atreus had made. For the same reasons Kratos treasured him, many others did as well. His presence was something no one would be quick to forfeit. 

“Thank you.” He reached to cradle Kratos’s face in his hands, tipping it upward for a chaste kiss. As he pulled away he teased him. “It is unlike you to break a rule. To say I was surprised you came to see me would be an understatement.”

“I suppose spending time with you has changed me.”

“It certainly has, you are becoming quite the little rebel. It is good for you, to at least pretend that Sparta does not own who you are.” Atreus chuckled, the grin he wore the most genuine of tonight. Kratos found himself transfixed. He worked to memorize its curve, how it showed his teeth, how his eyes narrowed. Atreus’s voice cut his admiration short. “But in all seriousness, I cannot come steal you away as I used to, and you should not come looking for me, either. It is easy when you are out in the open, but here there is only one door in and out. It is risky.”

“I know.”

“Then I expect not to wake to you again.”

“Mm.” Kratos’s agreement was half-hearted. If Atreus would no longer come to see him outside of training, he had no qualms with taking on the role himself. It bothered him less now to go against the word of the elders. Particularly if it meant time spent with Atreus.

“That does not convince me. Say it.” Though Atreus’s voice was firm, Kratos heard the underlying plea. He breathed a silent sigh and gave in.

“I will not seek you out.”

“Very well. And when you are in the barracks, you should not go off venturing after dark. Or at least do not be caught. Though I do not know who you would be looking for other than me.” Atreus grinned, full of himself. He was correct. There was no one else Kratos would seek at any time of the day, let alone the dead of night. He was caught off guard by Atreus reaching for his face. He pinched his cheek between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. “Some fair maiden, perhaps?” He dropped his hand and laughed as Kratos rubbed away the ache he had caused. 

“Between the two of us, you are the one that needs to be seeking out a woman.” Atreus would be expected to marry soon, to have a child. He had only a few short years left. The topic shut him down, he looked away, drawing his arms close to himself. Kratos, curious as to why, turned to him. Atreus would not so much as make eye contact.

“I will deal with that when the time comes. For now, there are more pressing matters. Like rest, for us _both._  Come. Up now.” Atreus stood, and Kratos followed. He was met with a kind smile. Atreus cupped his face, guided him forward in order to rest their foreheads together. They stood for several moments like that, the tranquility of the night fragile and short-lived. Come morning they would be made to know pain and hunger all over again. For now, it did not matter. Atreus pulled away and found his hands. “I promise I will come to you. Give me time to settle in, and I will.”

“Do not keep me waiting.”

“I might.”

They shared a grin, Kratos huffing a laugh. It was weak, but it brightened Atreus marginally, who then pulled him in close for a kiss. After it ended, Kratos lingered. Atreus shooed him away. “Now go.” Alone, Kratos returned to his herd. He looked at none of them, uncaring if they wondered where he had gone.

~

The house was quiet, save for the push and pull of the wind and the rhythmic scrape of blades along whetstone. Kratos sat alongside Atreus as they sharpened their weapons. Their silence was companionable, comfortable, yet Kratos grew anxious. He did not show it. The boy had left long ago to practice his draw, taking the head with him. While the weather was mild, and he had told his son not to go far, conditions could change with little warning. The storms of Fimbulwinter were long-lived, brought down snow with blinding ferocity. Orientation was rendered unsustainable. The boy could be feet from the house and would not know it. If he were to become lost, it would be near impossible to search for him. As he finished with his hunting knife, he said, “Stay here. It is time for him to come in.” His words earned him an incredulous look, which Kratos caught in his periphery. He sheathed his knife on his hip. Atreus dropped his to his lap.

“ _Come in?_   He has not been out that long! Let him play, Kratos, it is not often he leaves these four walls. He will come in when he is ready.”

“It is cold.”

“Is it?” Atreus chuckled, teasing him. His voice was patronizing, pitched higher as if he was talking to a child. Kratos paid it no mind. The fire did little to heat the space, even with them sitting close. Every breath burned their lungs. It was no secret. “Then he will come in when he is cold _and_ ready.” Kratos stood. No matter how Atreus may care for him, it was _his_ son. Therefore, it was his call. If he perceived it time to bring the boy inside, then it was so. It was no evil to call him in to warm up. “I see you are going to do what you wish.” Atreus grinned up at him. In the dim, the glow of the fire cast him gold. Kratos hesitated, pulled between the desire to admire him and to preserve his child’s safety. He made his choice and skirted behind him to leave. As he passed, Atreus caught his hand, tugging it back to press a kiss to his knuckles. 

Kratos pulled reluctantly from his grip. He had not planned on giving an explanation, but Atreus’s tenderness wrung one out of him like water from a rag. “I have not heard his bow.” It was true. He had heard it firing regularly until moments ago. No amount of straining his ears had been enough to hear it again. His fear had been quick to take hold, instinctual. Exiting the cabin, he found nothing. Atreus was nowhere within sight. Panic took him, as fast and hard as a crashing wave. His blood ran colder than the snow that crunched under his boots. He fought to calm himself, soothing his nerves with sound logic. Atreus knew not to go far, he was well aware of the dangers around their home. Fimbulwinter. The gods. The broken protection stave. He had not wandered without reason. Perhaps he had only gone to retrieve an arrow. Taking in a deep breath, Kratos readied to call for him. Then, he heard it.

Voices.

Unmistakably that of his son and Mimir. They spoke in hushed tones, words impossible to hear over the wail of the wind. He took notice of the footsteps that littered the ground, trying to discern at a distance which ones were fresh. One anxiety exchanged for another, spurred him into motion. The head knew his secrets. Had he requested the boy to pull them aside to disclose the truth of what he and Atreus really were? Kratos hurried in the direction of their voices, down the path that led to the boat dock. He paused as he grew close, spying the boy in the woods. He stood just off the path, the head in his hands, strung to face him by the ropes about his horns. The wind must have drowned out his footfalls, as they took no notice. They spoke uninterrupted. Of _him_. Kratos anchored his feet and listened.

“But have you heard him lately? He’s calling me  _boy_ ,” complained his son, dropping his voice low to imitate his father. As he continued, he spoke in a heated whisper, one of which Kratos could barely make out. “I hate it when he calls me that.” 

“I know it’s rather impersonal, laddy, but—ah, I hate to be blunt—it’s not like your da’ is the most emotionally intelligent between the three of us! Why haven’t you tried telling him how you feel?”

“Because he won’t get it. He was getting better, but ever since we came home I feel like he cares less and less.” Kratos felt his heart sink through his ribs and into his stomach. He thought of the light, of Atreus’s words ringing in his ears _I just wish he was better. I know he can be._ His son had been trusting of that, put faith in him. Kratos had done nothing but disappoint him. Unfortunately, there was no end in sight. He was not sure what he could do to fix it, or if he could at all. Fimbulwinter dictated what days they could spend together, the weather not always allowing his son out of the house. He understood that, or so Kratos had thought. It likely mattered little whether he did or not. Being left behind was nothing more than a shade of his entire childhood. Mimir’s voice dragged him from his head.

“Oh, no, you’re thinking about it all wrong. I’m afraid, it’s quite the opposite! If you’re on about how often he’s out to hunt, leaving you at home is only what he thinks is best for your safety. You’re a growing lad, you need to eat, and he knows that!”

“I know he thinks it’s too cold to take me with him. I was fine when we were in Hel, it’s not like it’s _that_ cold.”

“Then perhaps this is a subject better discussed with your father. I think I’m not quite qualified to make a call... We’re getting a little off subject, aren’t we?”

“Yeah.” There was a brief pause. The boy looked down at where he scuffed his feet in the snow. “I just wish he’d call me by my name. I don’t get why he doesn’t ever use it when he’s the one who picked it! I know you didn’t go to Jötunheim with us, but he actually called me ‘son.’ I was kind of hoping it'd stick. I mean, he _was_ calling me Atreus more—until _he_ showed up.” His shoulders fell, a sigh. “I wish he would have let Mother name me.”

“I do believe he’d be heartbroken to hear that.” Disappointment riddled the head’s words. He was correct. Kratos had wanted the name to be something for his son to take pride in. He had been named after a great man, the finest Kratos had ever known. Even if the boy was speaking in emotion, the blow of disheartenment was dealt all the same. Kratos brushed it away. Refocused. The boy shrugged, the movement jostling the head on the ropes.

“It feels like I don’t even have a name to him. I’m just a kid that he doesn’t want.”

“And I think he’d be  _even more_ heartbroken to hear _that._ I know it’s hard to see, but your father loves you. You’re just looking for it in the wrong places!”

“I guess.” It was not the first time he had heard this. _He doesn’t want me and he never will._ It was an insecurity that had followed the boy throughout his life and would persist for years to come. Guilt ate at Kratos’s mind, an insistent gnaw. He had instilled these feelings within him, not unlike how he had caused his illness. It seemed unlikely he would ever manage to make a decent father. One of the many reasons he needed Atreus here, something his son could not understand, and Kratos did not expect him to. To learn the boy felt no different now, after everything, was hard to swallow still. They had come so far. Even though it had been such a short amount of time, it was difficult to remember what life was like before. Before his son had become attached to his hip. Before he had struggled to play both the roles of a mother and a father. Mimir’s crooning whisked away his thoughts like a lit wick in the breeze. 

“There anything else you need to get off your chest, little brother?”

“Um, yeah, actually. I… I like Atreus. A lot! I do. But I wish he’d go home. I can’t believe Father is letting him stay with us forever.” When they had told him that Atreus had no plan to leave, the reaction had been nil. There was no resentment, no outburst. The boy had only asked _Never?_ to ensure he understood.At the time, Kratos was unsure what to make of it, it had seemed like the boy made his acceptance. It appeared that was not the case.

“Well, I think what you’ve got to understand is that you’re father’s quite fond of him. They grew up together! It is not often you believe your friend dead and find him alive.”

“I know. I get it, but I don’t understand why Father won’t let him sleep in my bed. That’s _mother's_ spot. And what am I supposed to do if I get cold? Father won’t fit into my bed with me.”

“Ah, well, what they’ve got is something special, truly—” Kratos did not hesitate to interrupt, the head’s words erring too close to the truth. He had figured it out long ago, had put all the pieces together. His sly innuendo after they had walked Atreus home had been a kind hint. Even if he had no intention of telling the boy the truth, Kratos feared any detail would be obvious. He stepped forward, off the path. The movement brought the head's attention to him. Their gazes crossed. He promptly shut his mouth with a snap of teeth. “Oh! Appears we’ve got company, little brother.”

The boy turned, the color blanched from his face. “Father? We were, um, we were just talking.”

“I heard. Go inside. We will discuss it another time.” The boy dropped his head, holding Mimir close as he made to scurry home. Kratos held out an arm, a barrier between him and the house. “No. Give him to me.” The boy hesitated. He looked between the head and his father.

“It’s alright. Do as your father says.” Mimir’s voice was soft and pleasant, coaxing. It was enough, the boy holding him out. Kratos took him without a word, watching as his son slowly wandered back to the path. He paused to look over his shoulder, regretful. Dreading what would become of the head and himself, no doubt. 

“Go,” urged Kratos, sending the boy on his way. He waited until he heard the front door shut, then he sighed and lifted the head to eye level. Mimir wore a grim expression, his frown lost in his beard. 

“Well. How much did you hear?”

“Enough.”

“Your son’s not exactly happy with our new resident.”

“I know.” The head was unaware that the boy had confronted him about it himself. He had done nothing at the time and he continued to. What was there that he could do? He would not have Atreus leave over this. His son would have to learn to cope and move on.

“And he’s frustrated that you aren’t on his side. Don’t you get that?”

“I do.”

“And once you tell him the truth, it’s only going to make it worse. Already he feels like you’re replacing his mother just by letting him sleep there. How do you think he’s going to handle it when he finds out you’re—” Kratos exhaled harshly, the noise not unlike a growl. “ _Oh._  You _are_ planning on telling him, aren’t you?” With false hope that Mimir suspected something else, Kratos responded as if he did not know.

“Tell him what?”

The head did nothing more than blink, the dim light of his eyes flickering across Kratos’s face. “You… you really think _I_ wouldn’t notice? Why, I’m almost offended! I’ve seen the way he looks at you, brother. How he gets his mitts on you at every opportunity. It’s not exactly what I’d call subtle—I’ve seen love before a time or two!”

Perhaps they had not been able to hide it well, but after all this time, they were starved for each other. It was a craving for which neither of them could find satiety. Kratos looked away, past the head’s horns and into the woods behind him. He did not want to accept it here, admit the truth, despite there being no other option. It was none of the head’s concern who he lay with or to suggest what he do about it in regard to his child. However that may be, there was no denying that Mimir had taken to an almost parental role. He spoke with the boy constantly, entertained him, accompanied him. It was not impossible for him to know his son better than he. As with most honesties, it sent something to ache behind his ribs. “Fine,” Kratos admitted, the word small and weak in the wind. The head’s expression had loosened into something slightly more easy-going. It did not last long.

His brow furrowed. He said, “Listen. I’m glad for you, really I am! But Sparta did not breed the healthiest of relationships. You sure this is what you want, brother?” The roles were what their homeland had forced them to play. His adoration for Atreus had begun at a young age, and so had Atreus’s for him. They grew up side by side. There was nothing to judge.

“If that is all that concerns you, then we are done.” Kratos dropped the head to his side and turned, the snow crunching under his feet as he trudged back to the path. Mimir hurried to regain his attention.

“I’ve got more if you don’t mind.”

Kratos slowed to a stop, lifted him. Whatever the head had to say, he knew he did not want to hear it. He had half the mind to start again for the house, but it served little reason to make an enemy. His son was already upset with him. When he _did_ tell him the truth, whenever that may be, having the head on his side could prove to be an asset. The boy would heed his word before anyone else’s.

“If my opinion means anything,” said the head, carefully, “I think it in his best interest he knows, and for you to be the one to tell him.”

Kratos’s breath clouded the space between them, made white in the cold. “I know.” The head acted as if he had not put any thought into this. He knew these things. His son would learn. He would tell him as soon as he felt it appropriate to do so. If the boy already was struggling with Atreus sleeping in Faye’s bed, then there was no reason to strain their relationship further by telling him now. He would wait, allow them all time to adjust, _then_ explain all the boy need know.

The head raised his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. “So you’re already planning on it, are you? Any ideas as to when?”

“I do not know.”

His confession caused the head’s expression to harden marginally. His brows drew in confusion, trying to bridge the gaps. This was a subject he knew nothing of. Kratos had yet to share any of it with him, and he never would. What Mimir knew was what he had either figured out on his own or had overheard. He did not understand enough to offer sound counsel. Kratos, nevertheless, let him speak his point. “How do you not know? If you’re going to tell him, then you need to do it, brother. The longer you wait the more damage you do. If this is something you really want, then you’ve got to deal with all that comes with... This _is_ what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Then I’m going to return to what I was trying to ask earlier. Have you considered how the boy’s going to feel? With his father moving on from his mother, and with a man no less?” The head chose his words as he spoke them, his tone cautious and measured. Unsure if it was either to ensure he understood or prevent argument, Kratos was unsure. He harbored no answers. The head did not rush him. In the resulting silence, the wind spoke. Snow clung to Mimir’s beard, his brows. Kratos sought out his words. There were many things he feared. He feared having to choose between his son and Atreus. A decision he did not wish to make. Could not make. He feared his child’s resistance—his anger, displeasure, and disgust. Kratos had done little to make his son proud. This was not to be another mistake, another reason to prove him unfit to parent. 

“I do not expect him to be happy,” he said. It was both the most simple and truthful response he could muster. 

“Or accepting, brother. Does he realize this is something men do? I do not think it quite as commonplace here as it was in your homeland.”

“It was only so until we married.” This was a subject where Kratos felt compelled to make the head aware of his inaccuracies. Only as children were boys encouraged to seek pleasure in one another. Once they grew old enough to marry, they were to provide strong children to serve in their stead. An impossible goal with every man seeing himself satisfied with his comrades. 

“You've got nothing to be ashamed of. I’m only trying to prepare you for the worst, though I’m sure—”

“I am always prepared for the worst.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less! Just wanted to make sure you thought this through before you go doing or saying anything you can’t take back. I’ve been trying to get you alone for a while now. I suppose now that we’ve aired all that out, you’ll be willing to stop avoiding me?”

“Mm.” 

It was neither confirmation or denial. Kratos tied the head to his hip, returning home. He found his son brooding on the edge of his bed. Atreus offered a weak smile as he left the head on the table. With the intention to have the discussion he had threatened, he came to stand at his bedside. The boy spared him a glance, wearing a scowl. His privacy had been invaded. It left him angry. Defensive, he pulled his knees to his chest. Kratos turned away, decided to let it go. He had entrusted the head with his emotions. There was no need to punish him for finding an outlet, especially one that spared them his explosivity. Regardless, Kratos had much to think about. Decisions to make. Without speaking a word, he took Leviathan from its perch on the wall and left. 

He did not return until well after nightfall. The air frigid and the dark of the woods fathomless. The bifröst at his hip brought him just enough light to find his way home. He had left in search of answers and clarity. He had found none. For now, he sought the comfort of his bed and a warm body pressed close to his. It would bring him more peace than the silence ever could. It was strange how his ways had changed. As he pushed open the door, it creaked, sending Atreus to his feet. Kratos met him in the middle of the room. The floorboards complained under their weight. In his son’s bed, the tell-tale lump did not budge. The boy was either asleep or still caught in his anger. 

“I was worried about you,” he said. Relief coated his whisper. “Is everything alright? Are _you_ alright?” Despite the meager heat the fire offered, its absence was felt. Warmth blistered on his skin. 

“I am tired,” said Kratos, moving past him to check on his son. His furs were pulled over his face, the air too sharp and icy to breathe comfortably. His bedding rose and fell. Slow and regular. Atreus came behind him, laying a hand on his arm.

“He is fine. I fed him and put him to bed a few hours ago. I do not know what happened between the two of you. Neither he or the smartest man alive wanted to speak on it. However, I _was_ told that it would be best for you and I to have a conversation.” Kratos looked to where the head sat in the table. His eyes were closed, his face impassive. He sat on the bed to remove his boots. Atreus crawled into the space Faye used to fill. They settled in silence. The fire crackled, well fed in the pit, throwing unsteady shadows across the walls. Neither of them spoke for a long while. Atreus rested his head against Kratos’s shoulder. Their fingers twined. Finally, he found a few words, speaking them in a gravelly whisper. 

“The head knows.”

At his words, Atreus raised his head to look him in the eye. “Knows what? He is the smartest man alive is it not part of the title to know things?”

“He thinks it in our best interest to tell the boy.”

“And in his as well, I presume.” Atreus untangled their fingers to turn onto his side, facing him. He propped himself up and over him, his hand on Kratos’s chest. The fur of his tunic was damp from the snow. When Atreus spoke again, Kratos was surprised that it was not to tell him to change into dry clothes. “I know you do not feel it time, but I am ready. I have been since you first told me of him. The only one preventing us is you.” He spoke matter-of-factly. It was not damning. Only the truth. “I know it is not easy, and I know you aren’t exactly _comfortable,_  but I think the head is correct.”

It was not exactly what Kratos wanted to hear. He took a deep breath in and out. Atreus, as he always did, brought out a side of him he thought had died on the battlefield where he lost him. Jokingly, he said, “He _is_ the smartest man alive.” His tone was flat, but Atreus still laughed, a soft chuckle. He patted the muscle of his chest twice.

“He is! And while I do not mean to hurry you, we cannot keep this a secret from him forever. It will be far easier to tell him ourselves than for him to figure it out on his own. He is smart. He will eventually. A gift passed on from his mother, I am certain. It could not be from you.”

The jest earned no reaction. “I know," Kratos's whisper came with an air of defeat. Atreus, ever in tune, stroked him from his cheek to his neck. 

“Then when shall we tell him? _How_ shall we tell him?” _We._  He was not expected to do this alone. It was a minimal comfort.

“I do not know. It does not have to be tomorrow. Only soon.”

“Yes, but you do not need to use that as an excuse to keep putting it off. What are you most afraid of?”

“That I will have to choose.” That his son would hate him, resent him with everything. That he would become his father, and their fathers before them. This path was one he did his best to abandon. Vengeance bred nothing of use. He did not want Atreus's presence to disrupt what he had fought so hard to build. Though, perhaps, after all he had done, all the blood he had shed, it was what he deserved. Atreus's brow knit, his expression made foreign by his frown. 

“Chose what? Either him or I?”

In the space where Kratos did not answer, the wind raged, its anger eternal. The house groaned and shuttered in its efforts to remain upright. “Yes.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Kratos could hear how he yearned to call him _my love._  It had been so long since he had heard it, but Atreus spoke it often through his actions, his gentle touches. Any trace of tension melted from Atreus's expression, he spoke as if Kratos were a worried child in need of advising. It should have been demeaning, yet it served as a familiarity. “I doubt it will come to that. Atreus and I get along well. I will not lie to you—it will take some adjusting, but it will not be as hard or extreme as you fear.”

“I do not want him to hate me.” Kratos did not know why he said it, lulled into a sense of security further than he realized. Being vulnerable in front of Atreus was an old habit he could not break. But the wish was one he did not deserve. He had spent the entirety of his son's rearing doing all in his power to be distant. He had been purposeful in the way he had dismantled any chance of attachment. Faye's passing had blindsided him, made him realize the error of his ways. Whatever resentment his son nursed was well deserved.

His words had Atreus sitting up, cradling his face in his cold hands. His head was tipped to force eye contact. Though it felt impossible, Kratos met his gaze and held it. “Listen to me—he will not. He _cannot_. You are his father and all he has left. His love for you is as unconditional as yours for him. There is nothing you could do to lose him.” Kratos did not bother to explain to him that a father's love was a foreign concept. That love for one's father was just as so. How could he understand something he had never felt? How could he learn something no one could ever teach him? Most importantly, how did Atreus, who had only been reintroduced into his life weeks ago, know what his own child felt toward him?

“How can you be so sure?”

“Ah," Atreus relaxed some, settled onto his back. His warmth soaked through Kratos's clothes, intoxicating. Under the furs, their hands found each other. "I see how he acts around you. How much he craves your attention and approval. You are his world. Must I remind you who he demands a bedtime story from? It is never I, that is for certain. Or your friend, and he can regale one better than any I have ever heard.” Kratos did not know how to answer. He knew the boy loved him. It was more complicated than that, however. Things were not so simple. Having your child's love did not make you a decent parent, or a forgivable one at that. At his lack of response, Atreus squeezed his fingers tight. “If you wish to talk, then I am willing to listen to every word, but I do not think that is the case. Is it?”

“No.”

Atreus only sighed. “You cannot hide from this forever, but for now I think it more important that you rest." He untangled their fingers to prod Kratos in the side. "And you have yet to find yourself into dry clothes. You are freezing—it was unwise of you to stay out so long." When Kratos gave no response, Atreus pushed him toward the edge of the bed. "Up you get. Change. I will make myself useful and see to the fire." Though exhaustion nibbled his bones, Kratos forced himself up. Atreus swept a hand across his back as he passed him on his way to the logs. The fire tended and in a dry tunic, they returned to bed. After a short while, Atreus turned to him again. “Next you decide you should be alone, tell me. Do not make me worry. Please." Kratos said nothing. Atreus pressed next to him, just as Faye had for many years. His mood turned bitter, yet he did not move away. He rested his head on Kratos's shoulder, dead weight from his wariness. “I suppose I am a fool for expecting an apology." Resigned, he brushed his lips against the skin of Kratos's shoulder. "Goodnight.”

They lay in silence for an indescribable amount of time. Finally, Kratos found something to say. It was not expected of him to speak, but tension still strung their muscles tight. This, too, was something that weighed his mind. “How were you not seen?” Atreus stammered and did not move, gathered his wits. Kratos had completely caught him off guard, and understandably so. It concerned nothing of the boy and everything of Atreus’s bold actions. He felt as if he were forever seeking answers, trying to wrap his mind around the how and the why. When he received a response, it was doused in remorse, Atreus’s fingers traced the line of Kratos's arm.

“I… You are still upset by that? Not that I am surprised. Though I meant well, what I did was inconsiderate. You have every right to hold a grudge.”

“I hold nothing. I am only curious.”

“I think you underestimate it greatly.”

“I never said I believed it a simple task. It was no such thing. It was punishable. Unthinkable.”

Atreus breathed deeply, and when Kratos turned his head to look at him, he found his eyes fixed on the rafters overhead. His fingers wandered Kratos’s arm beneath the furs, up and down. It was repetitive and soothing, meant for them both. “I know. It weighed on me, how I abandoned everything. My duty, my people. I used to keep myself up at night wondering if those lost in battle that day were ones I could have saved. Of all those since.” Finally, he turned his head, his gaze roaming Kratos’s face for a moment. He laughed. A single, amused puff in the dark. He reached for Kratos’s cheek,  patted it roughly. “Do not look so sad! I have made my peace with it. That was years and years ago. The guilt is something I carry no longer. And even if that were not the case, finding you has made everything worth it. This is far better than anything I could have dreamed.”

Atreus had veered from the topic, Kratos understood these things already. That it had been a hard decision to come to, that it had hung over his head after he had done it. It had nearly destroyed him, the loneliness, the knowledge that there existed no option to turn back and resume the life he left. What he did not was  _how_ Atreus had managed it. They were conditioned to die, that to give one's life in battle was the highest honor. That it was what their mothers and fathers wanted, what the state wanted. For a man to be raised with that and then decide to leave and seek better was something that did not happen. To a Spartan, there was no better. They were bred to carry pride in their heritage and in themselves. Atreus had fallen prey to that mentality as well. Even so, it was an offense to flee as a coward. It warranted severe beatings, made public to those who wished to jeer and shame until the runaway eventually succumbed. “Most men thought it impossible.”

“Yes, so I was told.”

The words caught Kratos unsuspecting. He lifted his head, confused. His heart thundered like horse’s hooves in his chest. “ _So you were told_?”

“Ah—” said Atreus, flustered and flailing for an explanation, “Ah, yes—I failed to mention that—”

Kratos felt himself go cold. Atreus had told other men. His men. The ones meant to follow his command and obey. The ones meant to _report_ to him. “You told others?” 

“Well, yes—”

“And none of them thought to tell me?” Had he been made known, he could have gone after Atreus, fled with him. He could have been spared his life, his mistakes. They would have grown old together in peace, in the woods, a pipedream come to fruition sooner than fate had it planned. But then again, what kind of man did that make him to abandon his family? Despite how he loved Atreus, he had loved them as well. Still loved them, even if he thought of them sparingly.

“Kratos, please,” Atreus said, holding out his palms to the foot of the bed, a plea for his anger not to take hold. “I needed cover. I begged them not to ever speak a word of it. I know that is… an extreme favor, but I had trusted friends. I needed to ensure that if they were to see my escape, they would not report it. It was not worth the risk.”

“And yet you did not tell me.”

Atreus combed his fingers through his hair, frustrated and defeated. “I know. And I am sorry. You know why I could not. I have explained myself enough on that end.” He sat up and considered Kratos a moment before he reached to hold his face, his thumbs stroking the bony ridges of his cheeks. “It was not you I was running from. I know you may feel it so, but I swear to you that was not my motivation. I need you to know that. Do you?”

Kratos ignored his question entirely. He was not sure and cared not to delve into it. This was meant to give him answers, not to explore his emotions. He looked away. “Do you think the others knew of what we were?”

“I think some of them had an idea, yes. They had to. I do not think we were half as subtle as we believed.” Atreus chuckled as if it were funny. It was not.

“The ones you told, did they know?”

“No. I did not wish to leave and only muddy your name. I left so you could make something great of yourself.” While the thought was kind, and he perceived what he had done as being unselfish, Kratos could not view it as such. There were reasons he wished for Atreus to stay, reasons he wished to run with him, reasons for him to go and for them to end up just as they had now. He did not know which he preferred. He only knew the outcome, what they were living. If only he could find satisfaction in it. He did not know how. “We were not the only ones.”

The words caught his attention, a rabbit in a snare. “Were we not?”

“No. No one spoke of it, but I had my suspicions.” In his mind, Kratos tried to walk through the days he could remember, those that seemed so long ago. He could not think of who it could have been. He had felt confused and alone at the time, torn between what he longed for and what was right in the eyes of society. He had no reply, Atreus changed the subject. “Your son. What was he upset about? You did not tell me.”

“I found him speaking to the head in the woods. About how you are not to leave.”

“Mm. I see. He was upset at being caught?”

“I told him we would discuss it.”

Atreus laughed softly, in good nature. “Is he? Are you going to?”

“I do not think so. If that is how he feels, nothing I can do will change it.”

“That is wise.”

“And that is why I am leaving it be.”

Atreus lay back onto his shoulder again, his voice a warm whisper in the cold. Kratos searched for his hand and hoped this would be the last time they settled in for sleep. He was tired, drained from his sudden excursion. “I… hm. I do not want to tell you how to parent, but I do not think it is very beneficial to give empty threats.” His lack of response was enough to dissuade Atreus from continuing. It was a small mercy. Once he began talking, it was often impossible to get him to stop. Kratos closed his eyes, willing the whispering of the fire to lull him to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

With leviathan sharp and heavy against his back, Kratos stepped out into the cold. It was early; the sun just beginning to warm the topsides of clouds, the light still dim yet brightening with each minute passed. He would be hunting, alone, as he usually did. The air cold and the snow moderate enough to warrant leaving the boy at home. Atreus would remain home to watch over him. The reassurance brought him peace. With no need to hurry home, he could spend as many hours as it would take to track a kill. Kratos breathed deeply, the air singeing his throat. His past several hunts had been unsuccessful. They needed the meat. Were dependant on him to provide it. Atreus had offered his stores— if the animals had yet to claw into his home for them. Kratos refused to accept them. Felt it unjust to deplete his supplies. What if, for any reason, he were to return home? Though they struggled now, it would not last. If he kept searching, he was bound to find something. It was simply a matter of patience. A difficult feat when he worried for the wellbeing of his child, yet there was no other option. He pulled the door shut behind him, pausing as it met him with resistance. He turned. Atreus stood behind it, spear in hand, his cloak drawn tight around his shoulders. Kratos dropped his gaze to where he had placed his foot in the jamb, then looked to meet his eyes. Atreus only smiled and invited himself out into the snow with him. “I figured you may enjoy the company.” As if he were expecting no opposition, he closed the door behind them. 

“The boy needs you more than I.”

“Does he? This will not be his first time on his own.” Willful, he spoke as if Kratos's acceptance— or lack thereof— meant nothing. The words reeked finality, leaving no room for question or refute. Kratos did not move. If he were to, Atreus would only follow.

“There are chores to be tended to," Kratos said, tone calm and even. The unfortunate reality of their routine was that it forced them to spend most days apart. Regardless, it worked well. There was no need to disrupt it. But this was a battle he would not win. Very rarely did Atreus accept rejection. Now was no time for that to change.

“Then I will do them later. If you are so concerned then you may help.” Atreus strode past him, in the direction of the gate. He turned when Kratos did not fall behind. “Come, time wasted is light lost.”

Kratos’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. Atreus's refusal to heed did not mean he could not stand his ground. “I will return before sundown.”

“I know you will. We _both_ will. Your son will be fine. He is self-sufficient as you’ve raised him to be.” Though he knew Atreus meant no harm, the words cut him. It had not been _how_ he had raised the boy, it was how he had not. His neglect had taught him to fend for himself. To rely on his mother and depend on his father for nothing. _“Come,_ Kratos,” said Atreus, putting end to his thoughts and urging his feet forward. Kratos moved past him and through the gate, tamping down the urge to strike it with a fist. He hadn't a bone of want in his body to spend the day in anger. Especially at the one he treasured most. It was not often they made time alone. Regrettably, his temper did not care. Did Atreus not think him capable of hunting on his own? He was not to fault for the lack of game. This winter was extreme: affecting all realms and far outside any being's control, let alone his. Though rage stirred prickly and sharp in his stomach, Kratos made no move to send Atreus homeward. It was best to allow his company. The simplest option and certainly the path of least resistance. No outburst would ever be enough to scare him away from his cause, whatever it may be. Therefore it was nigh impossible to convince him to abandon it. Atreus was stubborn. It was almost as annoying as it was admirable. _Almost._

They walked through the woods in silence, following the path for some way before diverting off between the trees. The wind beat at them, unminding of the fur of their tunics, cutting through as if they'd dressed in linen sheets. Atreus held his arms close to himself, the hand around his dory discolored and shaking. Kratos failed to understand why he would not stay where it was warm. Whatever motive he had was yet to make itself apparent. Kratos did not ask, expecting it to make itself known eventually. Neither of them spoke or looked at one another, Kratos’s frustration an apparent force between them. Which was fine. It was preferable they remain quiet. Their voices would carry, spook nearby animals. If there were any, that was. They had yet to stumble upon any tracks or hear a single call. The only noise the wind in their ears and the steps of their feet. They continued for quite some time until Kratos could take it no longer. “Do you think I cannot handle myself?” he asked, tone low and hefting a heated note.

“Why would I think that?” Though he sounded genuine, Kratos did not look to him. In his periphery, Atreus turned his head.

“I cannot hunt on my own. Do you not trust I would bring back something?”

Atreus drew his brow. Kratos lengthened his strides, his indignation quick to carry him away. This was a conversation he did not wish to have. Why he had brought it up was beyond him. What did it matter? If Atreus believed him incapable of hunting, then so be it. He had nothing to prove. He had provided for his wife and son for years, kept them well fed. Had ensured hunger would be a discomfort they would not know. Times now were different. Kratos did what he could, balancing rearing his son with household chores, fruitless hunting. While it was never quite enough, there was not much more to be done. He had believed that Atreus understood that. Gathering the words to demand he not be treated as a child, Kratos prepared to speak. Before he could, Atreus jogged to catch up to him, falling into step at his side. He reached for Kratos’s forearm with a gentle grip, a mere caress around the bandages. “I still do not understand. You believe I think you cannot hunt and _that_ is why I demanded to come with you?” Suddenly Kratos realized that he had interpreted the situation incorrectly, yet he said nothing. He slowed his pace. Atreus’s hand migrated up to his shoulder. He tucked his fingers into Kratos’s tunic where it was warm. They stung, icy against his skin. “I know you can hunt, Kratos. Did it not cross your mind that _occasionally_ I may desire to have you to myself?"

“The boy is more important. There will come time for that.” It was a hope Kratos had been hanging onto for days, Atreus had been with them for some while. Moments of privacy were few and far between. The most contact they shared were discreet touches in the night, quick pecks on the lips behind the fence. Even with more pressing matters to be dealt with, there was no denying how they craved each other. Regardless, the boy’s wellbeing came before anything else. 

“I agree! But there is another reason I was so adamant. There is something I need to discuss with you. Privately.” By his tone alone, it was obvious that it concerned matters Kratos would not want his son to overhear. He kept his eyes forward, on their surroundings. Atreus continued after a few moments, accepting his lack of response as permission, “You need to tell him.”

“I know.”

“I mean _soon,_ Kratos. You cannot keep him in the dark forever. I have been thinking about it, as I am sure you have. It is time he knows.” Kratos, on the contrary, had yet to give it serious thought. If he had his way, the boy would hear nothing of it. Ever. Their relationship had always been kept discreet. It had worked in Sparta; there was no reason it could not here, as well. But continuing would be to allow his fear to rule him. In the eyes of Sparta, it would have been a dishonor either way. Whether he lived open and honest or remained as he was, actions governed by dread. In theory, Sparta's ideologies should command him no longer. He questioned if it did Atreus still, if he was better equipped to hide it. It did not matter how far they walked away, its teachings were ingrained in them. They would carry them wherever they went. The knowledge was suffocating. Kratos steered himself back onto subject.

“He will know when time comes.” It was an empty promise, purposefully vague. Atreus’s fingers slipped out from beneath his tunic. He switched his dory between his hands. 

“And when will that be?” Kratos had no answer. Atreus glanced to him as if he expected one, then seemed to abandon it. They trekked along through the snow, side by side, mindful of their footing. Rocks and roots hid under the snow, which grew ever deeper as the days passed. After a short time, Atreus made another attempt. “It is only fair to him.” Chancing a glimpse, Kratos found Atreus’s eyes fixed ahead of them. Snow dusted his hair, clung to his eyelashes. His face was rudy, raw from the temperature and the wind. He looked away. Time passed along with the ground beneath their feet. They found no game, the wind their only company, whistling eerily to them through naked tree limbs. An old song never-ending. Finally, Atreus spoke again. “Kratos.”

It took him a long while to respond, wanting to hear none of what Atreus had to say to him. “What?”

“I do not mean to press you,” said Atreus, his words slow as he chose them, “but I stand by my word. He needs to know. I _want_ him to know, he deserves the truth.” He did not. The boy deserved a father who was faithful to his wife even in death. If reality were ideal, her love would greatly outshine that of a man from decades past. Kratos was ashamed it was not the case, that if Atreus had come to him the day of her passing he would have accepted him all the same. Atreus reached for him. He ran the tips of his fingers down Kratos’s arm. It was ticklish, yet he made no move to pull away. The touch plucked him free of his thoughts, a berry from bramble. Atreus's voice came into focus. “Kratos. Need I remind you that I am here to converse with you? I would appreciate if you would speak.”

“I have nothing to say.” The words came as a disinterested mumble, unwilling and distant. Kratos was plagued by a sinking feeling— he could not escape this for much longer. If Atreus wished for him to speak, eventually he would have to. It was simply the way things went between them, how they always had gone. When they were younger, it had been easier. Kratos had believed himself human, as mundane and ordinary as every boy that stepped foot on the training grounds. Atreus had appealed strongly to that side of him, broken down his walls. They used to slip away into the night and lay in the dirt, speak for hours. It seemed impossible to find that part of himself again. Most days felt as if it had never existed.

Atreus sighed, aggravated though his voice remained level. “We both know that is not true.” Again, Kratos ignored him in favor of focusing on their hunt. Without a word, he broke from Atreus’s side to move west, putting a small amount of distance between them. Atreus followed, lagging behind. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. “Do you know why I wish so badly for this? It is because I did not come here to hide who I am. I ran to love whomever I wished, _marry_ whomever I wished. You know this.”

“I do. Yet you chose to be alone. You have had enough time to find another.”

“Do you not think I tried?” Frustration set a flame in Atreus’s words, he caught up to Kratos quickly, knuckles white around his dory. “None of them could compare to you.”

“You believed you could replace me?” It did not matter, yet something dark broiled in Kratos’s belly. Atreus’s words had struck a nerve. Not that he hadn't considered it before. How Atreus needed someone. Kratos had been genuinely surprised to find that he'd led a lonesome life. That he had not settled with a husband or wife. He had been mentally prepared to be replaced. Never had it troubled him until now. To hear what he perceived to be a blatant admission had the words burying like mites beneath his skin. It was childish to let it destroy his resolve; they would surely frighten away their chance at a decent meal. That was what logic spoke, but Kratos had no patience to listen. What mattered was that Atreus had left him ready and willing to find another man to love, to share a life they had dreamt up in secret. 

“Gods, no. I knew there was no replacing you. I only wished for someone to keep me company.” Kratos did not believe a word. He trudged onward, Atreus scampered after him. “I do not wish to argue with you, but I need you to realize that I am being made to relive the very situation that drove me away.”

“And what is that?”

The words Atreus spoke next were strained and slow, as if he expected Kratos unable to comprehend. Realizing there would be no avoiding this discussion, Kratos brought his feet to a halt and turned to face him. Atreus was flushed, shaking. It was not due to the cold. “That you only allow me to love you at night. By sunrise I am expected to become your comrade, which is something I have _never been._ You expect me to play this role for you and I do not know how—”

“I _expect_ nothing of you—”

“As if I can somehow stop loving you for even a second, you do not understand how much I struggle to—”

“You act as if Sparta gave us a choice,” Kratos said, his voice a roar that stunned Atreus speechless. “If it had, we would have been wed.”

His exclamation did nothing in way of a deterrent, serving only to send Atreus rounding on him within the instant he had finished. “And you act as if you did not have eyes on her. You knew exactly which woman you wanted. You pursued her. You _loved_ her, we are both aware of it. Fell in love with her the second the elders led them in to _jeer_ at us.”

“I made that no secret. I found her only because I had to.” 

Atreus balked then he said, “And _you_ are upset that _I_ am trying to replace you? You have been wed _twice. Loved_ twice. All I have ever wanted was you.”

“I married again because I believed you were gone, Atreus. There is no use in longing for the dead— I see that is a lesson you have yet to learn.”

Atreus laughed in disbelief. “You were not dead.”

“You had the means to know? Had I never called upon Ares, I would not be here now.” It went unspoken between them that he wished often for it. To have perished on the battlefield like a good soldier, a well-rounded captain spilling his blood for his state. His pride had gotten in the way, his ego. He had wanted to taste victory, to earn glory. He had fought for himself, a fool’s mistake. A shameful offense. At the time he had been so blind to it, defended himself from his wife, a woman that had known him inside and out. She had been aware from the beginning to her end. His very quality that displeased her most had been what spelled her demise. If only he had been willing to listen. Atreus said nothing, screwed his eyes shut. His brow furrowed, digging deeper the creases of his skin as Kratos continued, unable to stop. “If you wanted to run, you should have told me, let us go together. I believe you do not remember I wanted it just as badly.”

“You had a wife. A child on the way.”

“We began that discussion long before either of them. There was never a moment where I was not prepared to leave.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you angry? This is what you wished for me, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Atreus.”

“Ah, you hardly answer my questions, yet it irks you when I do the same!” The jab was half-hearted. Atreus, his expression sad and worn, looked older than Kratos had ever seen him. They had lost so much time. Atreus was mortal— aging, frail, and temporary as was all life. This was how they chose to waste whatever years they had left. Arguing about things decades in the past. Kratos felt guilt crowd his heart. For once it made itself useful, chasing away the remnants of his rage. “I believe I am owed the right every once in a while, but fine. I cannot say no to you." Kratos expected to be touched, for Atreus to cup his face. It never came. "I wanted you to live a normal life. I was trying to be selfless. I did not want to drag you down with me, going against what we had been taught. I know we believed we could find a way to make it work, but it did not bode well with me. Going behind your wife’s back to keep you. It was selfish and immoral, and… you are right— I have no reason to guilt you for marrying twice. All I ask for is your forgiveness and your patience. One day I will make my peace with this, I swear.” Kratos considered Atreus a moment, who nervously swapped his dory between his hands. He smiled weakly. Kratos did not return it.

“What if I married a third?”

Atreus’s brows knit. His smile widened, listed to one side. “What?”

“Would that hasten you?” 

Atreus’s expression waxed into something more confident. “I... I am afraid I am interested in much more _handsome men._ I do not know if you are quite to my taste.” Kratos fought the corners of his lips briefly before giving in. 

“And I did not realize how cruel you could be. A shame.” They stood for a long moment, wrapped in comfortable silence. It settled over them like warmth from a fire, soothing and familiar. Their spat forgotten, Atreus erupted with laughter. The sudden noise did little to disrupt their peace. Kratos watched, lax and amused, as he flipped his dory head down and stabbed it into the snow.

“You are being serious?”

“I am always serious.” He had hardly finished his sentence when dry lips were pressed to his own. The kiss was chaste and fleeting; Atreus pulled away just as quickly as he had moved in. He took Kratos’s face between his hands, his fingers carding through his beard. His eyes were bright, his smile wide. Though it exaggerated his age lines, it was reminiscent of their youth in ways Kratos could not explain.

“I know." Atreus dropped his eyes to where the wind ruffled the fur of Kratos’s tunic. “When I would call you my husband, I meant it. “ Kratos had always been aware. They way they used to speak, there was no mistaking it for some flippant pet name. Still, he was pleased to hear that it had been sincere. Atreus brought his gaze up, tracing an invisible winding path from his chest, up his neck, and to his face. He was nervous, Kratos realized. It made his stomach flutter for reasons he did not have the time to ponder. “Well?” 

Beneath his ribs, his heart thundered. He imagined he was happy, tried to recall what it felt like. After a short spell of introspection, Kratos realized it was something else entirely. Something more familiar. Anxiety, overpowering all else. Guilt nipped at his heels like a hungry hound. He should be overjoyed. He had waited for this enough. They had both. But it meant he would have to tell his son he and Atreus were romantically involved. That they were wed. That he had remarried not even a full year after his mother’s passing. Untangling himself from his thoughts, Kratos brought his focus back onto the present. He found Atreus’s eyes bright and twinkling. It would do him no good to dwell on such things now. _“Well?”_

“You married in this land. How is it done?”

Kratos thought for a moment, trying to remember what Faye had told him all those years ago. Her voice, once it resurfaced in his mind, brought with it the softness of her touch, the drag of her hair through his fingers. “Praise is given to the gods—”

“You praised the gods?” Atreus interrupted, his voice pitched high with hope. Kratos was quick to correct him.

“No.”

“Did she?”

“No.”

His smile faltered but did not completely fall. Cordial, Atreus patted him on the chest. “Ah. It seems she was a fine fit for you.”

“Yes,” said Kratos. His mourning snuck to him, a snake in the grass. She had been worthy of much more. He knew her feelings had been real, but his thoughts harbored the tendency to creep. Often they calculated the likelihood that she had never loved him, had married him only for the sake of prophecy. Regardless of what the truth was, he would never know. And in reality, it did not matter. At worst she tolerated him. Their marriage had not been terrible by any means; he had disagreed more with Lyssandra than he had ever with Faye. Looking back to Atreus, Kratos held his gaze. The snow peppered his hair, blending in with the gray, stark where it caught in the light. “As are you.”

“Oh, how you make me _swoon,”_ said Atreus, nothing short of affectionate teasing. He laughed and rested palms on Kratos’s chest. “Go on before you have to carry me home. What else?”

“We held a feast. She bathed in the river.”

"I do not think we will be able to have a feast of any kind. Perhaps a stew?"

"You are willing to jump in the river?" Kratos scoffed as if in skepticism. His hands, which had been still and useless, slipped into the front of Atreus’s cloak to rest on his hips. The rise in temperature made his fingers tingle. 

For only a moment, Atreus’s smile disappeared. He seemed puzzled, and then asked, "You did not bathe together?"

"It is customary for women." A cleansing, though it was supposed to be more elaborate than what Faye had done. She had simply rinsed herself, returned to the bank, and into his arms. In his mind, he could still hear her laugh, see her smile. The way her wet hair clung to her cheeks, her neck. He had brushed it away and kissed her over and over until he lost count.

Chuckling, Atreus’s fingers wandered to caress his neck. It felt good to exchange these intimate touches. They had waited for so long. Kratos brought him closer. "So it is more fitting for _you,_ then? A shame that I cannot have you leaping into rivers in this weather. Anything else? Perhaps something within the realm of possibility?"

"Consummation."

"Hm?" Atreus’s brows raised, and his hands fell still. Though Kratos knew he had heard, he repeated himself.

_"Consummation."_

"Ah. Of course. That is... _doable._ If it is something you want." Kratos ached at his hesitance, knowing he himself had been the one to place it in Atreus’s mind. His sins were told, his scars shown. No longer was there need to put end to any of Atreus’s advances. Still, he supposed, there existed residual fear. Atreus, as good a man as he was, had no need to see the marks Kratos had earned dismantling their homeland. Permanent reminders of every life taken and every mistake made. Yet knowing this had not driven him away. Atreus had been incredibly patient with him. Loved him as if he had led a life worthy of it. The temptation to give in to him now, to slip away to his home and into his bed was profound, yet not enough to act upon. They had a hunt to finish. A child to feed. 

"It is."

In an instant, Atreus pressed his lips hard to his own. His fingers dug into the nape of his deck, nails blunt against his skin, then they scrambled up, across the back of his head, and slid down his face to grip at his beard. At the feeling of Atreus's tongue, wet and cool against his lips, Kratos craned his head back and away. Now was not the time to lose themselves to their baser desires. There would come more appropriate opportunities. Frantic and hungry, Atreus's mouth chased his. Kratos took a step back. Atreus's feet shuffled to follow. He took another. Atreus's hands traced down his sides. He pushed him gently by the hips, urging him backward. They stumbled against one another through the snow, halting when Kratos bumped into a tree, solid and firm at his back. Levithan rattled against the metal of its hook. The sudden contact surprised him, and Atreus was more than willing to take advantage of his open mouth. Kratos braced his hands against his chest and braced his elbows, putting space between them. Atreus was quick to respond. His hands raised where they could be seen. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. "I do not know what came over me.”

His remorse was heart-rending. Kratos had drawn inconsistent lines where none had been before concerning their intimacy. He ached at the muddled expression Atreus wore, his eyes searching along his face for answers. He had made his desires nothing short of unclear since their reunion, had never taken the time to explain why. Desperately, Kratos sought to mend it. “Another time,” he said. It sounded avoidant rather than promising. That much was obvious when Atreus fixed him with a stiff smile.

"Oh. I believe I have gotten ahead of myself, have I not? Forgive me." He wet his chapped lips and moved to step away, to make an awkward return to their hunt as if nothing had taken place between them. Before he could retreat out of arm’s reach, Kratos snagged his wrist and tugged him close again. For a brief moment he looked confused, his smile losing some of its false confidence around the corners.

"There is nothing to forgive." _I want this_ was what he meant, and it was clear he had been heard. His expression softened into something more sweet and bold. "I only hoped we could wait for a bed."

"Listen to you! _A bed._ That is what this is about? Do not be ridiculous— we have never needed one before." 

"We are not as young as we used to be."

Atreus simply laughed. His hands dipped low, over his stomach and pressed flat. “Say what you will, but all these years have cost you little. I do not think it would be an exaggeration to say you look _far_ more handsome than when I saw you last.”

Kratos huffed through his nose, a laugh. It plumed in the space between them, dissipated. “Is it the beard?” Atreus tossed back his head, cackling. The sound sparked something in him. Too late, Kratos found the corners of his lips twitching. He forced them to straighten, stubbornly regaining his usual stoicism. Judging by the gleam in Atreus’s eyes, he had not acted quick enough to prevent being seen.

“I am sure I would manage to love you just the same without it.”

“That is kind.”

“You act as if I am not always.”

“It is a rare treat if nothing else.”

“You must think you are _hysterical,”_ Atreus said. His hands shook. His body trembled. _I cannot stay out as long as you can_ played in Kratos’s mind. It was time for them to continue on. Find something or return home. The thought stuttered to an end when Atreus untucked Kratos’s tunic from his trousers, sneaked his finger inside to find his skin. It felt as if he had stuffed two handfuls of snow against his belly. 

"I do not know what I am," replied Kratos, playing earnest, "I am quite modest." His hands settled again on Atreus's hips, beneath his cloak. His warmth was intoxicating. Kratos guided him closer, savoring it.

"Mm, _modest._ Is that you are choosing to call it?" Their lips met again, open and desperate. Kratos held tight to him as his hands teased the skin under his tunic, raising gooseflesh in their wake. It was maddening, the itch to give in and let Atreus take what he wanted. What they both wanted. But it was freezing. Kratos would let him have his fun for a few moments more then usher them back to what they were _supposed_ to be doing. In the meantime, he would enjoy this. He freed his hands from Atreus’s cloak to trace the curve of his spine up to his hair, where he entangled his fingers and used the leverage to pull Atreus into him. Interrupted the appreciative noise he earned with a clack of teeth. Atreus retreated. Kratos leaned forward, not ready to let it end. Cold fingers pressed against his lips, pushing his head back against the bark and prompting him to open his eyes. Atreus’s were half-lidded. His mouth red and wet, lips swollen. The sight was almost enough to make Kratos shiver. He mouthed the tips of his fingers, slackened his jaw to get them into his mouth. Atreus’s thumb stroked his chin. “There is no need to rush.” 

Kratos pulled off with a wet noise, watched as Atreus wiped his hand dry on his tunic. “The cold is not reason enough?”

“That is what a fire is for. I will survive.” He dipped forward and they kissed again, albeit briefly. 

“And I?”

Atreus snorted, a short puff of breath against Kratos’s cheek. “I do not think you have felt so much as a chill a day in your life, but if you are that worried, then I suppose we are done here—” Kratos’s hands replaced themselves in his hair, realigned their lips. Atreus chuckled noiselessly and reached down to grasp at his thigh, encouraging it up and around his waist. The sudden shift in weight had the snow giving way underfoot. Kratos teetered. Just as he lost balance, Atreus tugged him upright. Their breath came in ragged pants. Nostalgia rolled over him like a tide and did not recede. This was not the first time they had been tripping over each other in the woods.

“Do not let me fall.”

“I have you,” Atreus said, conviction bathed his words, though he spoke them as a joke with an absent punchline.

“Do you?” Kratos asked, his doubt wringing a breathless laugh from them both. Atreus crowded close, undeterred. He rested his weight against Kratos’s front, rutting pointedly against him. Kratos sighed, wanting, and tipped his head back, inviting Atreus to plant a trail of kisses leading to his from his collar. He found his way back down with his tongue, broad generous strokes that left Kratos winded. Atreus stopped halfway and latched on, sucking harshly. The sharp prick of pain cut through the haze of arousal. Kratos had half the mind to stop him before he could leave any lasting marks. They would likely fade by the time they returned home, but he was not quick to trust that. The last thing he wished for was to have to explain them to his son. As he began the search for the will to tell Atreus enough, he opened his eyes, mind clouded and sluggish. It cleared as sudden as the snap of a branch underfoot. Several yards away stood his son, his brows drawn and his lips parted. Kratos shared in his dismay. Though he wanted to shove Atreus away, he could not. Panic had taken hold, freezing him as solid as the ice that dripped static from the tree limbs overhead. His blood flushed frigid through his stiff limbs, his stomach dropped. He could hear nothing over the drone of his heart in his ears, fluttering with a fear of the likes of which he had never known. “Atreus,” he said, the name weak on his lips. He could not speak but a whisper, voice nothing more than the rasp of a breeze through river reeds. His throat dry as the lands Kronos had been forced to wander. Somehow, over the wind, Atreus heard him. He pulled away from his neck, breath cold and harsh.

“Mm?”

_“Atreus.”_

“What is it?” Finding himself, Kratos remembered how to move, thrust Atreus back and away, sending him stumbling. His face twisted in bewilderment, hurt, fear. He must have believed he had done something wrong— overstepped— and could not determine where or how. “What has gotten into you? What is wrong?” Sweat beaded between his shoulders, chilling him to the bone. Kratos said nothing, his eyes still locked with his son’s. How much had he heard? What had he seen? He wanted to call out to him, assure him that he'd witnessed nothing. His throat felt tight, and no matter how he tried, his mouth would not open. Atreus looked to him, his expression pinching as he noticed his distress. “Kratos?” When he received no response, he followed his line of sight and turned. His shoulders went rigid. He did not speak a single word. Helpless as newborn babes, they watched the boy turn from them and run. Kratos could feel the wet line of kisses freezing on his neck, pulling the skin taut.

~

Kratos woke to a hand on his shoulder and a gentle shake. He was up in an instant, turning over onto his back. His inspirer stooped over him with a tender smile. The moonlight shone through the twists of his curls. _"Atreus,"_ he said, unable to prevent the note of excitement that sang in his voice. Atreus brought a finger to his lips.

 _"Shh._ Do not wake your fellow comrades." With palms braced on his knees, he pushed himself up to stand. Extended a hand, which Kratos took immediately, hauling himself off his reeds and to his feet. "Come along, I have something I must tell you." Kratos, though he had an idea of what it may be, said nothing. His body thrummed, both in preparation for the news to come and the chance to see Atreus again. He could not remember the last time Atreus had come to wake him at night, to squirrel him away into the woods. It seemed the closer he came to becoming an established soldier, the less opportunity he was given to train with his hearer. Kratos had held out hope for the opposite to be true. Unfortunately, that had not been the case. It was baffling, really— What more could they have to teach him? Atreus led him by the shoulder to the woods with a firm grip around the nape of his neck. The pressure was comforting and kept him close at his side, enough so that he could feel the warmth of his body. Kratos drifted closer. Only noticed when Atreus guided him away before they began to trip over each other’s feet. As they approached the treeline, his chuckling broke the silence: low, fond, and familiar. Kratos looked to him. “Were you surprised to see me?”

"No. I expected you to come eventually."

"Did you? That explains your unbridled joy when you laid eyes on me."

"It was no such thing." Kratos's defense was half-hearted, edging into the territory of becoming a joke. "I am a Spartan. Had my dory been within reach, waking me would have been a fool’s mistake."

"Ah, I see I was mistaken! So you are admitting to me you were frightened? Did my gentle hand startle you?" He shook Kratos playfully by the shoulders.

"I—" Kratos struggled for words, floundering valiantly. "No, I was only…"

"Only?" At Atreus's prompt, he did not answer. Atreus laughed. "It was _adorable._ I am glad you were looking forward to seeing me. I have missed you, as well."

"I said nothing of missing you."

 _"Atreus!"_ He mocked, raising the pitch of his voice to imitate Kratos's own. The annoyance it brought was directed more at the truth in Atreus’s words than anything else. Kratos had yet to go a day without thinking of him. Constantly he wondered about him, his training. He fell asleep at night counting down the to the moment Atreus would come for him. Dreamt of being discreetly pulled away into the woods. There was no hiding it. The sour expression that had twisted his lips eased, and despite himself, he grinned up at Atreus briefly.

"Perhaps a little, then."

"Only a little?"

“Perhaps.” 

Atreus scoffed and clapped him on the back. _“Perhaps,_ he says.” He brought them to a halt and urged Kratos by the arm to turn to him. “Well, whatever your feelings are, I missed you dearly.” Though the treetops snuffed out much of the moonlight, the stars peeked through the leaves like curious children. It was just enough to see Atreus’s smile, radiant as ever. It made Kratos’s stomach flutter. He was at a loss as to what to say, so he said nothing, his gaze on his bare feet. Atreus squeezed his shoulder. “Sit. I need a word with you.” His voice had gone from cheerful to grim in an instant. The disparity had Kratos craning his head up, searching his expression for why. His smile had drooped into a rigid frown that filled him with unease. They sat side by side, their knees touching. Kratos waited for him to speak first. It did not take long. “I am sure you have heard, but we are at war.” He had. It was not unusual, war being the continuous theme of their lives. A battle was always to be fought. Knowing what was next spurred his heart into a trot. “I leave tomorrow.”

“You do?” His voice conveyed everything he felt, regardless of his wishes. He was enthusiastic, as any good Spartan should be. They trained their entire lives for this, fought tooth and nail to live long enough to witness true battle. It was a high honor. A great achievement. Jealousy burned within him, thankfully it remained only embers. His patience was hard to come by, but he bundled up what he could find of it. His turn would come soon enough. The time between now and then gave him opportunity to practice. To perfect himself. To become one of the best warriors the Spartan militia had to offer. He hoped for the day when his enemies would know him by name, when they would tuck their tails and scurry away like pathetic street dogs at the sight of him. Atreus’s voice cut through his fantasy with ease. He sat a little straighter, grasping desperately at every word his inspirer had to offer. If he could not see war yet, he could at least experience it vicariously. What Atreus had to say, unfortunately, was not much.

“I do.” The notion of war still waged on with his emotions. This time tomorrow, he would have spilled his first blood or be dead and trampled on the field. His affliction was something Kratos struggled to pity, he dug deep within himself to find sympathy, coming away with only a few tattered scraps. He would have traded places with him in an instant.

“You are still afraid,” was all he could think to say that bordered on appropriate. At best it was an obvious statement, but it would have to do.

"Of course I am. I have never said I was not a coward." Shame rolled off of Atreus in waves, his head bowed toward his lap. Kratos fished for something to comfort him, came up empty-handed. He had every reason to be shameful. To die for their state was to give glory. If presented the choice, Kratos would gladly. It was only what was right. Esteemed. Respected. He hoped above all else that death would find him in battle, that he would fall to a worthy opponent, one that the men behind him would rain vengeance upon.

“You only feel fear because you are underprepared,” Kratos said. Atreus could fight. But that was not all there was to learn. He had to abandon his sense of mercy. Kratos hadn’t a clue who had taught him it, in the whole of Sparta he could not imagine a single soul sustaining such a mindset. If by some miracle, he could find it within himself to leave his bleeding heart here by the river, in the rustle of tree leaves, tomorrow would be much easier for him. Atreus turned to him, incredulous. The expression caught Kratos unsuspecting. 

“You may call me underprepared when you can best me. I am afraid because I do not want to _die_ tomorrow, Kratos.”

“You have made your peace with killing?”

Atreus sighed harshly and dropped his head again. Kratos watched him expectantly. “I have made my peace with neither,” he said to the ground. “The day I do will be the day I am set down in my grave.” His words dredged up something that Kratos had yet to consider. Suddenly, he became acutely aware that day could very well be tomorrow. There was a significant chance that Atreus would leave and never return. He hoped there would be enough of him left to bring home. To bury proper. While Kratos preferred his return be made alive and well, he could not ignore reality. If the worst were to happen, he would like to have a grave to visit. Somewhere to pay his respects. Atreus had done more for him than his duties had ever required. His kindness was something no other could replicate. He deserved far better than a mass grave soaked with the blood of his brothers and enemies alike. Vulnerability crept up on him, slinking up his spine and over his shoulder. It was both miserable and unfamiliar. Kratos pulled his knees to his chest. It did not go unnoticed, his shuffling catching Atreus’s attention. His gaze fell upon him. Kratos worried the inside of his cheek. “Do you remember what I told you the night we met?”

Kratos thought for a moment. He had said many things that night. At the time, he had not cared to listen closely as he did now. After a moment, he realized what Atreus was referring to. “That you would be ashamed if you lost your sense of humanity.”

“Yes. I am afraid I _will_ lose it. I am afraid that I will become what the elders have fought to form me into— that their lessons are within me, and they will take over.”

“That is what you should hope for. Otherwise, you will die.”

“I know. It just… it does not feel right. I do not want to end lives for Sparta’s gain.”

“You hold Sparta dearly. It is what we do. If you cannot accept it, then you are not Spartan.”

Atreus smiled at him, tight-lipped and fake. “I suppose you are right. I will find my way. There is something else I wanted.” As Kratos lifted his head to inquire as to what, Atreus’s lips met his. Immediately, he reached for his robes, clutching at them with desperation. Tomorrow they would be replaced with soldier’s garb. His insides itched with jealousy. Thankfully, Atreus’s tongue was more than enough to distract him from it. They did not get to do this very often anymore. It was something to cherish. Atreus pulled away, his breath warm over his chin. “Yes?” Kratos nodded, kissed him again. He had waited for this enough. They had both. Blindly, he reached down to feel him through his robes. The startled noise he earned sent a satisfied shiver through him. Atreus shooed the touch away. “Wait— wait. That is not what I meant.” Kratos withdrew his hand, holding it awkwardly between them. He did not understand what else Atreus could have intended. 

“It is not?”

“No. I, ah—” He stammered, suddenly uncomfortable. Kratos imagined if it were not so dark, he would have been able to see Atreus’s flush. The image was endearing. Regrettably, they seldom indulged in such activities during the day. When they had first become acquainted, this had been a reward after training. At the time, Atreus had simply used his closed thighs and Kratos had been less than interested in watching any part of it. As it was supposed to be. Once their rendezvous had grown more experimental in nature, they held them exclusively under the cover of night for fear of being caught. It was a shame, having to fumble around in the dark, but neither of them complained. “I was thinking you could use your mouth.” It was spoken as a question, unsure if he was crossing a line where Kratos would be uncomfortable. His response was immediate and perhaps a little wounded.

“You want to make a whore of me?”

Atreus laughed, a sound Kratos did his best to ensure he had memorized. “No, no! I do not— _Goodness.”_

“How do you not, if that is what you want?”

“I will return the favor if that is what worries you.”

“I spoke of what worries me.”

“It is different.”

“Is it?”

“I do not think it common for men and whores to love. I, ah, not in the way we do, at least.” His words left Kratos’s face burning. It had begun in his chest, inched up his neck to his cheeks and spread all the way to the tips of his ears. Atreus _loved_ him. He had always known, but to hear it aloud was entirely different. Atreus mistook his lack of response for refusal and hurried to right himself. “It was only a suggestion. I never expect you to do anything you do not wish.”

“No.” His babbling had given Kratos time to recover and to find his voice. With newfound confidence, he sat up on his knees and reached to pull open Atreus’s robes.

It did not take long for either of them. They lay spent in the dirt after, breathing heavy and beaded with sweat. Atreus pressed tight along the curve of his back. Where they were exposed, their skin caught uncomfortably with sweat, Kratos’s robes rucked up under his arms and Atreus’s undone completely. Kratos began to slip into sleep and gave into it, turning over to press his face into Atreus’s chest. A hand stroked over his head and down his back. Atreus straightened out his robes as best he could. The sparse grass stirred in a breeze. He tucked himself closer. “Are you alright?” Kratos made a drowsy, contented noise. Loose-limbed and satisfied, he rolled himself onto his back, squinted blearily up at his inspirer. “That is not what I meant. Are you alright about tomorrow?”

“I have no reason not to be.” It was what it was. No amount of dread would ever be enough to stop it. 

Atreus lowered his voice, it came gentle and coaxing as he pulled Kratos back onto his side, cradled his head back to his chest as a concerned mother would her infant. Though it was rare to see such tenderness on display, Kratos had seen it before playing in streets with Deimos. Mothers and fathers desperate to keep their unfit children when the elders came for them. “It is alright not to be.”

“I did not say that I was not.”

“I know, but you did not say that you were, either.”

“What choice do I have?”

“To be honest. Please. Tell me what is on your mind.” For a moment Kratos had no words. He listened closely to the steady rhythm of his heart, beating just under his ear. It was strong. Healthy. Strange to consider he may never hear it again.

“I do not want to lose you.”

Sighing, Atreus reached between them and took his chin between his fingers. He forced their eyes to meet. “Listen to me,” he said, his tone serious as if this were a part of their lessons. Habit led Kratos to stiffen, ready to commit every word to memory. “If I do not come back, you will be just fine. You are strong with _and_ without me. Do you understand?” Kratos nodded curtly. “Good.” He let go, guided his head back down. Kratos continued to count each beat of his heart, each breath. He wished they could remain like this until morning. His bones were heavy with exhaustion. After the day’s training and partaking in Atreus’s stroke of ingenious, he ached for rest, yet he did his best to ignore it. He could sleep tomorrow when Atreus was gone. He was determined to bask in this intimate contact for as long as possible. It went unspoken that Atreus would fight with all their state had taught him. He had to return. Kratos gave him no choice.

Again, Kratos rolled onto his back. Atreus’s arm pillowed his head, a small respite from the hard ground, the dirt cool against his limbs. “Do you think you will survive?” It was an honest question, laden with harsh reality. His jealousy and zeal aside, war claimed lives. Cared nothing of boys’ hopes back home. Atreus huffed, playing offended, and draped an arm across his stomach. His trembling fingers gave him away. Kratos said nothing of it— let it go and did not dare reach to hold his hand.

“Do I _think_ I will _survive?”_ He laughed humorlessly, almost silent. It tickled Kratos’s scalp in asymmetric puffs. Whatever joke he had been planning seemed to end there, as when he spoke again his words sounded empty, fear carving them hollow as they passed his lips. “I cannot promise you anything. I am sure you understand that. But I will do everything possible to return to you.” Atreus reached for his cheek, holding it with a fierce tenderness. It broke Kratos’s heart in ways he could not describe. It felt like a goodbye, a farewell wherein neither of them were brave enough to actually say the words. A thought invaded his mind, bitter and angry with his sorrow. _This_ was precisely why he hadn’t wanted Atreus to become his friend. This was why he thought it fruitless, pointless, and incredibly unwise. A friend was someone to mourn, a distraction from what he was here for. From who he was trying to be, who he already was. He had fallen for his charm, his wit, his charity. Had _allowed_ himself to. Fell prey to the pleasure and security, and it had swallowed him whole without him ever realizing. Kratos pushed himself up, adjusted his cloak to cover himself properly. This was the price he paid for being emotional. For being weak. This fear and heartache were what he had tried so hard to avoid from the beginning. He grieved for a man that still sat next to him, dreaded the day the soldiers returned, knowing he would be watching them with rapt attention as they passed, trying to spot him in the procession of stragglers. Atreus sat up next to him. Touched him gently on the shoulder, a careful press of fingertips. Kratos did not look.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing,” Kratos said, rebuilding the wall Atreus had torn down stone by stone. It was difficult. Atreus knew him inside and out. There was not much they had yet to discuss. He disclosed everything as he had to no one before. Kratos fought the overwhelming temptation to scrub at his face. He would not show his emotions. Not anymore. Yet he was sure it did not matter, Atreus already knew. Could read him with a single glance.

“Are you sure? You seem bothered. There is no need to hide it. I take everything you share with me to my grave, which may be sooner than either of us would like.” It was supposed to be comical, a dark attempt at coping. Something murky churned in Kratos’s gut. Feeling the slightest bit sick, he swallowed it down. The fear of being alone was by far the worst of any he had ever felt.

“Do not say such things.”

“Ah. Forgive me.” Kratos stood and dusted his cloak. He could stand this no longer. Emotions ebbed and flowed in ways he was not comfortable experiencing. He would feel more steady after a couple more hours of sleep, once he woke with the knowledge Atreus was gone and there was nothing to be done about it. From the ground, Atreus peered up at him through the dark, his elbows on his knees. “Where are you going?”

“Back.”

“Oh,” said Atreus. His expression crumpled with dejection. It was gone as fast as it came. He wore another smile. Though the whites of his teeth showed, it was not genuine. “Well, if there is anything you have left unsaid or any questions you have yet to ask, I would advise you do so now.”

“There is nothing.”

“Ah, well, if sleep is what you are after, you are welcome to here. I will wake you before it is time to—”

“That will not be necessary.” Kratos held his ground, anger burning him up on the inside. Shame. Misery he blamed both of them for creating. 

Atreus stood and made no move to touch him or to apologize. He said, “Just know not a day will pass where I will not think of you.” Kratos had no response. For a long time they stood there in the woods, the breeze picking at their robes, nesting with the moon in Atreus’s curls. Above them, the leaves shook like an army of soldiers in a death march. Too well were they both aware this could be the last they would ever see of each other. It was how the state operated. There was no evil in it. Kratos stepped away, out of the dappled starlight and back onto the training grounds. He followed the riverbank, returned without fanfare to his herd. When sleep finally took him, he dreamt that he had stayed curled in the dirt, talked until the sun rose.

~

As his son disappeared between the trees, Kratos found his feet. He took a few steps after him, preparing to break into a run, to find him and explain himself, but something tugged him back. Forced him to halt. Atreus's grip was tight around his wrist. “Kratos.” Kratos ignored him, attempting to yank himself free. Atreus held fast. “Kratos, let him go.” The desperation in his tone convinced him to relent. His attention was still fixed on his son, on the direction he had left. No longer was he in sight, the trees and snow quick to swallow him up. Disquiet settled as a hard stone in Kratos’s stomach. What if he did not return home? What if they were not able to find him? God, giant, whatever blood he may be would aide him little in this weather. This cold would freeze him solid in a matter of hours. “He needs time, and after what he has seen, I believe it fair you allow him to have it.” Kratos glanced to him.

“No. Return—”

“I am returning nowhere. Keep your head about you. He will go home— it is all he knows. He is smarter than you credit him.” Kratos inhaled deeply, feeling it burn all the way down. Reminiscent of the wine he had used as a crutch; when he buried his regrets deep under the empty pottery that filled his quarters, under the abandoned clothes of the women he took to his bed. The whirl of emotions within him was something he could not name. Did not dare try. It felt mostly like a sickness. His head swam as if with fever. His empty stomach churned. His hands shook at his sides. He needed to compose himself, clenched his fists and evened his breaths. It did little more than make his nausea worse. Atreus carefully laid a hand on his shoulder. “It is my fault. I did not think he would follow us—”

“No. The fault is mine. Come.” Kratos steeled himself and strode forward. Atreus reluctantly complied, his remorse tangible. They followed the boy’s tracks in silence without luck. There was no sight of him. Time stretched on, the quiet blanketing them as the snow did the ground. The wind roared in a crude mockery of Kratos’s inner turmoil. True to Atreus’s word, he had gone home, his prints leading straight to the door. The knowledge leeched him of his resolve. Kratos hesitated, unable to bring himself to go inside. Atreus shivered violently next to him. He leaned his dory against the house and reached to touch Kratos’s arm, a polite request for his attention. His fingers were clumsy against his skin. When he spoke, it was through chattering teeth.

“Go. Talk to him. I will wait here until you are done.” Kratos turned over the words in his mind, his emotions striking him dumb. He turned to him.

“No. You are involved in this, as well.” It did. It was also easier than admitting the alternatives. That he was worried for Atreus’s health. That he did not have the courage to face his son alone.

 _“Kratos.”_ Atreus drew back his hand and tucked it into his cloak, “Go. I will be fine, as will you. I am the last he wishes to see. Your son needs his father.” When Kratos failed to move, he tipped his chin to the door and said, “Come get me when you are done. I will be right here.”

Kratos’s chest rose and fell. He nodded his gratitude and reached for the door. The house smelled stalely of smoke and wet wood. The door shut loudly behind him. In the dim, he stilled, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in lighting. His son was nowhere in immediate sight. The head, however, was. He laid on his cheek in the floor. Brow furrowed at Kratos’s entrance, his lips pursed. The gold of his eyes shifted as he brought his gaze to Kratos’s face, who bent to retrieve him then held him up by the rope. Nothing else seemed out of place, everything as they had left it that morning. The head must have said something worthy of invoking the boy’s wrath. Kratos imagined a similar fate awaited him, as well. Just as he lowered him to the table, he spoke, his eyes bright in the dark. “I don't know what in Hel you’ve done, brother, but I’d advise you leave him be.”

Kratos placed him down, ignoring him in favor of finding his son. It did not take more than a few seconds. Atreus was curled into a ball on his bed, his nest of quilts and furs piled on top of him. Sparing himself a few moments more to level his head, Kratos relit the fire. He lingered over it until he could no longer before approaching the boy’s bedside with caution. The floor complained beneath his feet. If he heard or cared, he gave no indication. “Atreus.”

“Go away.” The response was muffled, angry. Kratos eased down into a crouch.

“Look at me.” Several moments passed. Kratos waited as patiently as he could stand, his nerves eating him up from the inside out. Eventually, he caught sight of his son’s fingers, tiny and pale, peeking through the layers of bedding. He pulled them down, revealing his expression. Contorted with fury and hurt. Betrayal. 

“What?” he said, the word a curt snap. Kratos could not find the strength within himself to begin. What could he say? What _should_ he say? His mind drew an unhelpful blank. Perhaps he should have sought Atreus’s advice over the course of their return, regretted spending it in silence. In the moment, however, he had been far too preoccupied to think ahead, trusted the quiet to bring him peace and restore his rationale. For a long while, he searched for the right words, until the boy grew impatient and burrowed back beneath his covers. Kratos reached to pull them back down. “If you’re not gonna say anything, _go away.”_

“What you saw—”

“Where is he?” Atreus interrupted him with words sharp and fierce. It left Kratos no option but to respond.

“Outside,” he said, his demeanor carefully calm. One of them had to be. Inwardly, he was a wreck, anxieties threatening to tear him apart. Atreus could not know. It would only serve to make this situation worse, this discussion more difficult.

It took his son a moment to answer him, his gaze blank and directed over the pit at the far wall. Kratos, no matter how he tried, could not discern what he felt, his expression impassive. “Tell him to go home.”

“No.” His answer was firm. He would not lose Atreus again. The boy would have to adjust. As Atreus had told him, it would take time. It would not be easy. Though this had come about in a manner that was less than ideal, he had survived much worse. So had his son. He sought comfort in the realization, used it to dredge up the will to speak. “In the woods. What you saw—”

“I know what I saw.” He was insistent in a way that Kratos was unfamiliar with. Adamant, stubborn. For a moment it felt as if he was talking to himself, a young hearer who would have nothing that was not his way. Atreus looked to him. The illusion broke. “I don’t want him here, tell him to go home.”

“No.”

“Then make him stay outside, he’s _used to it.”_ Kratos honored his claim with no response. Did not take his eyes from his son’s. His aim had not been to intimidate, yet Atreus averted his gaze, struggled through an underdeveloped compromise, “Or… or let me sleep with you instead. I don’t want him in Mom’s bed. He’s not her, he doesn’t get to be there. It doesn’t matter that she’s… _she’s—”_ It was a pleasant surprise to find this concern remained priority. The knowledge of their romantic involvement only added insult to injury. 

“Atreus,” Kratos said, sounding more compassionate than he had heard himself in a long while. _I understand,_ was what he wanted to say. The words did not find him, and it did not matter, as Atreus spoke up, swift and snide.

“I thought I was _boy_ now.”

“That is enough.”

Suddenly, Atreus pushed himself up to sit, furs and quilts falling into a puddle around his waist. His hands took flight, gesturing wildly as he spoke. “What’s _enough_ is you lying to me— you keep doing it again and _again._ You always break your promises and you always leave, even when you tell me you won’t. I was worried about you! I was _scared_ and you knew it and you didn’t even care. All you wanted was to go and be with _him.”_ The fire lit his expression, cast red  over his knit brows and miserable frown. The time he had spent under blankets had not been enough to warm him, the mattress quaked in time with his shivering. Kratos could not help but fret, unsure how long he’d spent trailing them.

“It would have been unwise to bring him here. I was ensuring our safety.”

“You were _kissing_ him! I’m pretty sure that’s what you were doing when you first found him, too. Right?” It was a question he was uncomfortable answering. The boy seemed ready to tug out his hair, ghosting his fingers along the sheared sides. Kratos tamped down the urge to redirect his hands, to prevent him from hurting himself. He was not alone in his exasperation. Though Kratos’s was directed solely at himself. He should have listened to his inspirer’s wishes. Had they told the boy sooner, then he would not be here, kneeling on the floor, feeling like a worse parent than he already was. _“Right?”_

“Yes,” he said, shame dragging the word down until it was almost inaudible.

“You don’t kiss someone you think isn’t safe. You always knew, you just wanted an excuse to be alone with him. So you could be away from _me.”_

That was not his intention. It had never been. Perhaps he could have been stronger, fought his temptations. Perhaps he had given in, starved for a man he loved more than any other. But his intentions had always been to protect both himself and his son. It had never been right or easy to leave him. He had no desire to let his son believe the opposite. “That was not—”

“You don’t like me, I know you don’t. You never have. If it weren’t for Mother being gone, you would have left to stay with him forever—”

“That is not true—”

“And even she was still here, I bet you would have left her for him, too. You probably didn’t like her either—”

 _“Enough!”_ Kratos’s voice boomed in the quiet of the house. It rang in his ears after, stunned Atreus into silence. The boy glared down at his lap with a twisted face. Neither of them spoke. The wind and the fire took the opportunity to converse. Otherwise, it was silent. Finally, Kratos sighed and asked, “Why did you follow us? You know better than to leave in harsh weather.” Atreus only shrugged. He did not lift his eyes.

“I figured if he could go, I could too. He’s a mortal. I’m not.” His expression softened marginally, the rage receding to give way to childish persistence. Something far more familiar. Kratos straightened his shoulders and stood. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. Atreus scowled and made no room for him. Instead, he hunched forward to pillow his face in his hands. His cheeks squished against his knuckles, the callowness of it set Kratos’s heart to aching. “Besides, you two never leave at the same time. I figured there had to be something going on, and I didn’t want to miss out. Guess there was.” He grumbled the last of his words, his eyes roamed the house, looking everywhere but at his father. Kratos had nothing to say. Shame flushed through his veins anew, bitter and curdling. The resulting quiet was resounding, left them drowning in it. For an indecipherable amount of time, Atreus did not budge. Then he asked, “Were you ever going to tell me?” By his tone, Kratos could hear that he knew the answer already and was devastated by it. Though his question had been rhetorical, he felt the least of which he owed his son was a proper, honest response. He floundered for the truth.

“I… do not know,” he admitted, crestfallen. “The head advised me to. Atreus as well.” _Do not blame him,_ was what he meant, _it is not his fault I kept this from you._ He did not have time to cobble the words together, as Atreus lifted his head in shock. His eyes, blue as his Mother’s were, darted from his father to the table tucked in the far corner of the cabin. Mimir turned his gaze to them, having previously averted his eyes for the sake of privacy.

“Mimir? You knew?”

“Sorry, laddy.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I, ah…” The head’s voice trailed as he sought proper words. A feeling Kratos knew well. “It’s a private matter! I figured it most appropriate to leave between you and your father.”

His son dropped his eyes to the bedclothes, swirled an uninterested finger through the whorls of fur. Kratos watched the light from the pit, wherein the fire lapped hungrily at the logs. It popped and crackled as the wood shifted. Outside, the wind howled without penitence. He regretted leaving Atreus to its mercy. While the snowfall was moderate at best, he had been near-frozen upon their return. Kratos hoped he had the sense to duck under the slope of the roof, where they kept the wood out of the elements. He could only expect Atreus to sit out in the cold for so long. Being a Spartan meant nothing. He was aging. He was mortal. It made him fragile, delicate. Kratos had lost track of the exact amount of years, but he suspected both of them, had they remained in the military, would be retired by now. He found himself a bit astounded by the realization. When he was a child, a young man, the age had seemed so impossibly far away. Only a fraction of soldiers lived long enough see retirement, to have the shackles of war clipped from their ankles, to return to their children and wives for good. Against his will, the thought brought his daughter to mind, her face smudged and marred by time. He struggled to recall her face, her sweet smile. Surely by now, she would be grown, raising her own children. Tortured by his loyalty to Sparta, Kratos mulled over how he'd served it without doubt. How he'd been a slave to his own vanity, refused to fall when his time came. If only he had known what was to come.

He struggled to rein in his drifting mind. He could not afford to sit and watch it spiral. Not while his son needed him, while Atreus needed him. Though he preferred not to rush this, he had no other choice. In vain he tried to piece together a few sentences, something to prompt his son to speak and to usher their conversation along. Soon, it became apparent it was a waste of energy and breath. In his current state, the boy would heed nothing. He leaned forward to place his elbows on his knees, folded his hands together, and stared at the floor. Useless. As he was always when something involved his son. 

"So you were never gonna tell me, right? You were just going to keep lying about him being your friend— and you were going to count on him and Mimir to keep playing along."

The boy could not have spoken more accurately. Kratos had been willing to take advantage of their kindness and was willing to use it as long as he possibly could. There was no hiding from it. He was indebted to them both. Guilt settled in the spaces between his ribs, as a flock of crows would fill the branches of a tree. "Yes." 

Atreus glanced to him after a brief lull. Vaguely, he asked, "Would you have?"

"Would I have what?"

"Would you have left me to live with him instead?"

"No.” Kratos’s answer was immediate, easy. He had spent a lifetime nursing his longing for Atreus, but it held no candle to his child. It was instinctive to care for him, to stay close. Had he left him for any reason, he could never forgive himself. “Never.”

"But you _love him._ Don't you?"

"That means nothing." The face Atreus made reeked with dissatisfaction. He rolled his eyes, his mouth pulling into a deep frown. He did not believe him. It was understandable. Kratos had never given him a reason to. Atreus changed his course of action, probing for inconsistencies as one did for crabs along a beach. He asked a question that was tangentially related, feeling for a soft spot where Kratos’s answer would fall through and contradict.

“Are you going to marry him? _Can_ you marry him?” Kratos could not look him in the eye. Were they? His son had unknowingly interrupted their festivities. The state of their marriage was moot. Suddenly, Atreus’s eyes went wide. Worry played in the crease of his forehead. “You’re not already married, are you? Is that why you want him to sleep in your bed? Mother would— she would be—” 

"She knew." Atreus’s head snapped up, his attention fixed on his father, disbelieving and rapt. His mouth opened, his jaw working around words his tongue refused to form. The door rattled in the wind’s attempt to pry it open. A draft prowled across the floor. Atreus shivered as he constructed his response. It left his mouth as a croak, dry and unsteady as his hands in his lap. "She _knew?_ About—”

"Everything, yes." 

"And she let you name me after him." While Atreus’s despair did not go unnoticed, Kratos could not help but yearn for her. She had held his hand through every bout of mourning. Had listened intently to every word he spoke of Atreus of Sparta, her patience and love unyielding and unconditional. She had been everything he needed and everything he did not deserve. Made him feel safe in ways he could not describe. Trusted him without reason. Perhaps her prophecy, long since etched into history, had driven her to. Kratos felt that she would have been no different without it. Her goodness as genuine as her love had been, as his was. He could not bear the thought of it being anything less. "She didn't care," Atreus said as he stared at his lap, lost in his head. Kratos began to wonder if he had made a mistake, wished he had held his tongue. He had thrown Faye into this undeserving. Used her as nothing more than a shield. It was an indignity that he could not manage this without her. If anything, his mistake was proof of how severely he needed Atreus here, to stand in her place, to nurture his son in all the ways he could not. 

"Does it bother you?" 

Atreus’s expression crumpled as his curiosity outweighing his anger. He looked to his father expectantly, and when no elaboration came he asked, "Does what bother me?"

"That he is a man."

"It bothers me that he's replacing Mother and you're okay with it!” Atreus erupted, spouting his words fast and firey. The contrast caught Kratos off guard. Atreus’s lips trembled, his eyes welled wet with tears. At a loss for what to do, he watched as his son turned distraught. “I don’t—” He struggled for air, eerily similar to a coughing spell. Kratos reached for him, only to have his hand batted away. “I don’t care that she wouldn’t. I don’t care that you’re ready to move on because I’m _not._ It’s only been a few weeks, you can’t just bring someone home to replace her.”

"I am not,” Kratos corrected gently. There was no replacing her and Atreus was certainly not a _someone,_ though he swallowed down the words. There was no use in trying to explain it. Love in this sense was something Atreus could not yet grasp. Perhaps many years from now, a day would come when he would. For the time being, Kratos needed to be patient.

Hopelessly, the boy sobbed, curling onto his side away from his father, smothering the sound into his pillow. His shoulders shook with the force of it. His ears burned red in mortification. Kratos grasped to recall the last he had seen his son in such a state. If Faye had comforted him, and most importantly _how._ The only memory that struck him was of Faye’s passing, how he had made himself scarce when Atreus needed him most. It had felt out of place to over sympathy. After a decade spent turning his back, he continued to play the role. He rested a hand on the boy’s back, a wordless request for forgiveness. Several moments passed before Atreus calmed. He wiped his face on his sleeve and turned over to speak, his voice raw and eyes red-rimmed. “She just died and it’s like you don’t even care.”

"If it is of any comfort to you,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “I had no plans to remarry.” It was the truth. He had not. Finding Atreus had been an unpredictable accident. His son sniffed wetly.

“What makes him so special?”

“I have cared deeply for him since we were children.”

“So you love him _more than_ her.” The words were broken. Teary. The beginnings of fury boiled in them, faint and threatening.

"No. Longer, yes, but not more."

"Do you love him more than me?"

_“Atreus.”_

“What?” His son’s accusatory tone had Kratos preparing for another outburst. He withdrew his touch. “You’ve never said it! You’ve been a lot happier since he’s been here. More than you ever were before. Even _he_ said so. You actually want to spend time with us. You try to be _funny._ You were never like that with mom. He showed up and now you’re totally different.” It left Kratos at a loss. He had nothing to say, nothing he _wanted_ to say. Addressing his happiness would only lead them down the winding road of another argument he had no hope of navigating. Hastily, he considered his options. He could deny his son's accusation, claim it was from their journey. How it had brought them closer, taught him to value their relationship. That the moment the wind swept her ashes from his hand, he'd learned to let her go. That the combination of the two brought him peace as he'd never known. It was far too many words to string together. It was also a half-truth. He _had_ found peace, but it hadn’t been what changed him. That was Atreus’s doing, a magic he could work, one of which Kratos had never been able to understand. Ultimately, he kept his excuses to himself. He had enough secrets to maintain. There was no need to add another, and certainly not one about this.

Instead, he said, “You are my son.” Something he'd told him before. It felt unoriginal, the words lifeless on his tongue.

“What does that even mean? That you’d choose me if you had to?”

“Yes.”

“How am I supposed to believe that when you keep lying to me?” Exhaustion dripped from his words, dampening any other emotions to where they could not be discerned. “You lied to me about being a god, about who you were— but I could handle it. After all that, you really thought I shouldn’t know about this? I thought you were done hiding stuff from me, but I guess you lied about that too.” The guilt that had flocked to Kratos’s ribs stirred again to peck greedily at his heart. _I have nothing more to hide,_ was what he had said on the mountain. Had undone his wraps and watched them flutter out and away over a graveyard of his son's kin. Here he sat, wearing them again. A sick symbolism of the parts of himself he could not escape. Of the promise he'd made to both himself and his son, empty as a drum. At the time he believed Atreus had not paid his confession any mind, far too preoccupied with the proximity of their goal, the fulfillment of their promise, the culmination of the most important task he had yet to complete. That had not been the case. The boy was smart and not to be underestimated. Lost in his resentment, Kratos felt his patience begin to slip. 

“What can I do? I cannot change what has been done.” He wished dearly he could, but there was no going back. Though he delivered his words with a harsh bite, they bore well intent. Were meant to ask _How can I make this easier? What will fix this?_ He was feverish for a means to ensure his son would not repeat the history of his fathers before him. The mural stood tall his mind, the final etchings seared there indefinitely: a man lying in his son’s arms, his mouth gaping in a mourning wail. Was it him? Was that what fate demanded? As with the rest, time would tell. 

“I’ve already told you what I want you to do— I want you to tell him to _go home.”_

“And I told you no.”

“Then why did you ask? Why are you acting like it's perfectly okay to replace Mother?” 

Atreus was talking them into a circle. Kratos fought against his rising temper. “You speak as if your mother was not dear to me.”

“Not as dear to you as he is.”

This was going nowhere. It would continue to until his son had ample time to think, accept it, and move on. Kratos held eye contact until Atreus lost his fight and broke it, gaze down on his bedding. His grimy fingers picked at the edge of a quilt. Kratos interpreted it as a temporary forfeit. He stood from the bed and said, “I am going to bring him in now.” Atreus yanked his furs up over his head.

"Do whatever you want."

The door felt as if it were miles away. He had lost track of the time, unsure of how long he’d left him to stand in the snow. Atreus must have been miserable. Outside, he found him as he left him, huddled in his cloak and looking rather solemn, his shoulder against the side of the house. He lifted his head upon Kratos’s approach with a kind smile. It did not reach his eyes. “I see you did not forget me after all.” Kratos said nothing. He held the door, a silent invitation to come inside. Atreus did not budge. “I was playing with you. I know you would never.” He took Kratos’s wrist, his hand soothing the blisters under his bandages. Then he encouraged him forward, out of the jamb and reached to tug the door closed. They stood for a moment, the wind roaring. Atreus had yet to release his hold. Snow had gathered in his eyelashes, his hair, coated his cloak in mockery of clothing. In his mouth, his teeth chattered, chin wobbling with the effort to keep his jaw still. The chill had drained his face pale, save for where it rubbed color into the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose. He was beautiful, as he always was. Kratos took a deep breath and willed himself to be calm. “It will be alright.”

“What did you hear?”

“Not much, but enough. He is not exactly pleased with us, is he? But that is _fine.”_ He emphasized the word pointedly, raising his brows. A more genuine smile took residence on his lips. The sight was enough to ease the tension out of Kratos’s shoulders. Atreus reached to take both his hands. “I am going to head home. You two need a few days to sort yourselves. My hovering will be of no help.”

“It is too cold.”

“Kratos. Do not test me. It is only a few days. I will return before you know it. He needs time with you and you alone.” Atreus raised up onto his toes, pressed a kiss to the corner of Kratos’s lips.

After a moment of consideration, Kratos tried again. He needed him, could not let him go slipping away into the woods, regardless of what he thought was best. “Come warm yourself first. You will not make it home as you are.” Atreus scoffed, his wry grin lifting Kratos’s mood marginally. 

“You have no faith in me, I see. But I cannot say no to that. A fire sounds lovely.”

“I have changed my mind," he joked weakly but in good nature. "You will be fine. Go.” Atreus tutted and shook his head.

“And this is why I am waiting for another man to come along and sweep me off my feet. I much prefer one who knows his wishes before he speaks them.” The banter was familiar, and Kratos squeezed his hands in a silent display of gratitude. Atreus returned it and let go. “Well, with that being said, you will have to do for now. I cannot look at that face any longer and tell you no. I suppose it is important for your son to realize I am going nowhere. Yet.”

Though Kratos knew he should leave it be, drop their games so they could escape the weather, he could not stop himself from asking, “Yet?” Atreus made a noise as if in annoyance, a sharp note in the back of his throat.

“Until I find someone who fits my standards.”

“How cruel,” Kratos said, ever observant. They traded a final look, a lingering gaze that meant everything they did not have time to say. It spoke of Kratos’s fears, of Atreus’s sound reassurances. More than enough, it left no need for further discussion or the exchange of petty humor. Kratos led them inside, the door shutting firmly behind them. The wind scraped angrily at the wood, then quieted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially about halfway through! I wanted to say thank you guys for all the kudos and comments. It means a lot to see other people enjoying this! Unfortunately I'm heading back to school, so expect much slower updates for the next few months. As always, you guys are more than welcome to come distract me from my studies over on my [Tumblr](https://krap-tos.tumblr.com/)!


	7. Chapter 7

Their squandered hunt forced them to resort to what little food remained in the crawlspace. Kratos loathed to pull from it. With the weather unpredictable and worsening by the day, fresh meat was hard to come by. Their stores were dwindling, but they had no choice. They had to eat, and he had foolishly allowed himself to become so distracted. He prepared dinner alone, a few scrounged cuts of boar. The boy offered no assistance, nor did Kratos dare enlist it. He served them around the pit, their meal bland without the proper spices. As soon as he finished, the boy set his bowl aside and put himself to bed. For the first night Kratos could recall, he did not ask for a story. Nor did any of them offer. The head had yet to speak since his apology. True to his words, he offered neither comfort nor counsel. This was a private matter, one in which Kratos had foolishly let him become entangled. He had hoped for the boy to have someone to turn to while he grew accustomed to their amended household, and for that to be Mimir. He had deluded himself, hoping the head could convince his son that this change was not as catastrophic as he perceived. Short work had been made of that the moment he had fortuitously thrown him to the wolves. It had made enemies of them all. Perhaps that was for the best. It had been mindless of him to place his own responsibilities onto another.

Kratos was pulled from his head by someone taking his bowl from his hands. Atreus smiled politely down at him, and tilted his head toward the bed. He accepted his hand up and pulled himself to his feet. They sought refuge from the chill between their furs. Atreus lay beside him, warm skin tempting him closer. Kratos was grateful that he had accepted his offer to stay. Though the wiser act would have been giving the boy time alone, they possessed a history of being selfish men. If sleep found him at all tonight, it would come easier knowing Atreus was safe. He was stubborn enough to trek home half-frozen and trembling, and if he had, Kratos was certain he would have succumbed to the elements. How many days would pass until he felt it appropriate to search for him? Come morning there would be nothing left, the animals too hungry to let his body go to waste. The snow piled higher each night, smothering all beneath it. Any scraps that remained would have been buried completely within a day’s time. The image twisted oily and slick in his belly. He reached for Atreus’s hand, feeling blindly for it in the dark. Atreus interpreted his scrabbling and met him halfway, brought his knuckles to his lips. They were dry, chapped. Caught on his skin.

In the nest of his bedclothes, the boy tossed and turned. He had grown marginally less restless since he’d first lain down. Occasionally, the straw of his mattress would crackle beneath his weight, barely audible between the gusts of wind that battered the walls. Kratos’s guilt nipped his insides like a dog begging for attention. Sleep would elude them all tonight, it seemed. Already he felt as if he were struggling to tread water, keep himself afloat. His mind was swamped with every way this could go wrong, every way he could make it worse, every way he could not fix it. No matter his fret, the future was beyond his control. The knowledge brought him no comfort. 

His conflict must have been palpable, as Atreus reached for him and guided his head down to his chest. Kratos went willingly. If any good came from this, it was that he had one less secret to maintain. Atreus stroked him rhythmically, a path starting from the crown of his scalp down his nape and spine. The careful brush of his fingers was ticklish, a welcomed distraction. It eased some of the tension from him. Time trickled past them. Atreus’s touch wandered to knead the meat of his shoulder. Kratos lie still, breathing him in, the scent of skin and woodsmoke. “Kratos.”

He did not answer. Atreus’s hand rested patiently across the back of his neck. While he expected Atreus to encourage conversation about what had happened, he did not think it would come so soon, and most definitely not with the boy so close to them. Likely stirred by Atreus’s voice, the wood of his son’s bed creaked. They could not speak, not now, not with him awake. While he knew and it mattered little what he saw or heard, this was not for his ears, and anything they were to discuss would only serve to rile him up further. Kratos spent the next several moments assessing his son’s state of wakefulness. His attempts were futile. The draw of Atreus’s breath underhead and the crackle of the fire drowned out everything but the wind. His mind began to wander in the direction of his worries. That he had single-handedly dismantled his relationship with his child. Their bond had never been sound, and it was not as if he had any outstanding or otherwise redeeming qualities to compensate for his shortcomings. If the boy was to forgive him and wish to move forward, it would be out of his own kindness. Faye had passed hers onto him, and he wore it well and proudly. Though his nerves still bundled tight, it soothed the knot in his stomach. At least now he felt he better understood his son’s judgement. It was not that Atreus was a man. Instead, it seemed that his chief concern was _anyone_ stepping into the role his mother had left behind. Had Kratos brought home a woman, he imagined his reaction would have been much the same, if not more fraught.

“Kratos,” Atreus said, firmer this time and demanding a response. It tore him from his thoughts. His anxiety wasted no time rerouting to irritation. Again, he did not answer, sighing harsh and through his nose. This discussion was the last he wished to have, but he knew Atreus was concerned and would stop at nothing until they had it. For tonight, he had two choices. Either humor Atreus or lose his temper. The latter was unfair and unacceptable. It left him with no choice but to respond, though he preferred they speak outside and out of earshot. The image of Atreus sniffling in the cold made him reluctant to sit up. He regretted how little thought he had put into the size of their cabin. As it was, there was little room for privacy.

Suddenly, it occurred to him. An obvious solution. Greek. Surely Atreus remembered how to speak it, though he doubted his own ability. He struggled to recall the last he’d spoken it aloud. He had been so hasty to shed his heritage and had thrived under the assumption that he would never speak his mother tongue again. For a moment he struggled, unable to recall the simplest of words, then a wave broke over him. It came back in a rush. As natural as if he had spoken it mere days ago. Under his ribs, his heart raced, fearful of his past. He reminded himself that it was a compromise, and a good one. Preferable to standing in the snow. _“What is it?”_ He spoke slowly. Hearing the language brought with it vivid memories, the sound of himself bellowing into the open sky. His skin crawled from the inside out, raising gooseflesh on his arms.

Atreus made a huffing noise, one of which Kratos was slow to translate. Shock. Laughter. He was laughing. “Look at you— not so much of a Norseman, after all!” Kratos pulled away from him, the change in his tone unanticipated.. Atreus untangled them to ease his escape and continued to chuckle. He turned onto his side. When he spoke again, it was in Greek. It sounded of home, of a time when Kratos had been proud of who he was; when Greece had been beautiful and Sparta worth fighting for. It was a voice he believed he would never hear again, the sound of it swelling nostalgia bittersweet in his chest, bringing to mind every memory he wished never to forget. _“I believed you were done being a Spartan? Why return to it now?”_

_“The boy.”_ Kratos explained himself no louder than a whisper. The fire was lukewarm against his back, heat diluted by the nippy nighttime air.

_“I thought he had a penchant for languages?”_

While there was no denying his gift, the boy had mentioned the limitations of his ability before. That he was able to only feel his way through unfamiliar tongues due to the interwoven connections between them. They sprouted like branches that reached outward and into the next, allowing him to begin at points of similarity. Greek was entirely foreign, and there was no chance of the boy being exposed to it before. He had ceased speaking it long before his birth. As far as he was aware, Faye had known not so much as a word. He would not be able to decipher it without assistance, and Kratos had discouraged his only source.

_“For ones of this land, yes.”_

_“And you are confident of that?”_

_“Yes.”_ It was foolish to assume. He knew very little of these languages. Was proficient in only one and not so much as a single word of another. While he did not trust his logic to be foolproof, he felt it sound.

“Well,” Atreus began, “if you are sure it is alright, there is something I would like to ask.” His accent mangled every syllable. Hearing him speak so far from their mother tongue ripped Kratos from his cherished memories. Gone were they from warm breezes and babbling rivers, stolen bread and the gnashing of spears. It left abruptly them where they were, lying in the cold and clawing to survive. He would have it no other way. Atreus’s hand rested heavy on his hip, grounding. The dim firelight glinted in his eyes as he searched Kratos’s own. They had shared each painful moment of the day. It had dragged on endlessly and left nothing for discussion, or at least that was what Kratos believed. After several moments of silence, Atreus’s brows drew and Kratos felt his hand slip up his flank, his neck. He threaded his fingers into his beard, the tips cold against his cheek. In Greek, he asked, _“Are you alright?”_

_“I…”_ He struggled between the truth and a more preferable answer. A lifetime had passed and still Atreus made him feel so vulnerable, so childish. Kratos dropped his gaze to the furs, shameful for both his timidity and his tendency of dishonesty. _“I do not know.”_

_“You do not know?”_ Atreus’s mouth twisted with unease, which he was quick to correct. He grinned, wide and listing. Comforting. It soothed Kratos’s nerves. He flattened his hand over the top of Atreus’s. Something in the touch drove his expression soft. He asked, _“Are you certain?”_ During the span of the answering lull, he slipped his hand out from under Kratos’s palm. Brought it to his chest, where it settled on top of his heart. In turn, Kratos held him close by the small of his back. Pointedly, Atreus tipped his head toward the other bed. Kratos did not dare to look. _“Are you not worried?”_

_“You are not?”_

_“Do not answer my question with one of your own. Are you?”_

Again, Kratos was hesitant to admit the truth. Though he could not discern why— it was obvious that he was. This concerned the well-being of his child. Of course he was. _“Is there reason I should not be?”_ Atreus smiled kindly. His fingers stroked the bearskin of his tunic.

_“I am saying you have every reason to be,”_ he said, _“and every right.”_ Kratos held his tongue, feeling himself shrink, made small under scrutiny. As always, Atreus could read him with a single look, without expending an ounce of effort. It was an innate talent. His empathy ran deeper than the blood of any battlefield. Atreus studied him for several moments, tutted, then said, _“I know you are not going to grace me with an answer, but that will not save you from what I think you should hear. So, I will tell you this— you are going to be alright, as will he. Find your patience. This will end in time, but you must be willing to give it that.”_ Kratos felt himself sag into the mattress. Atreus, unsurprisingly, had known what words he needed to hear. At the subtle change in his posture, Atreus chuckled and patted him firmly on the chest.

As his ever-present voice of reason, Kratos’s logic whispered to him. There was much to discuss and little time to do so. In this moment, they had privacy. A commodity. It would be wise to take advantage of it. There were outcomes to predict and prepare for. The mindset was no different than that of wartime. Familiarity sidled up against him like an unwanted friend. No matter how far he went, he was a man of Sparta, bred and trained. He had led men into battle and to their deaths. To strategize was in his blood. Atreus’s, as well. They would always be two steps ahead of every situation they found themselves in, would always calculate every possible move of their enemy before he could take it. Perhaps the current circumstances were not quite so dire, but it worked much the same. While there was no enemy, they were at odds with his son, and they needed to map their alternatives.

On the flipside of the same coin, he would not repeat the mistakes he had made with Faye. All the time spent lying next to her, watching her die. The nights spent in silence, listening to the rasp of her breath. Wasted. After her passing, he regretted his inaction most. That he did not hold her close and plead for every scrap of her guidance. In the days following her passing, he had turned to her in each moment of his hopelessness, asked her _What do I do?_ If only he had done so when she could have answered, but he had been too distant and too afraid. She had been forbearing until the end. Held his hand, cradled his face as he knelt by her. Had prompted repeatedly that he would be fine, that he needed her just as much as the moss needed the sun. Until her last breath, she would have been tolerant of his doubts, of his questions, but he had held his tongue. Kratos breached from his grief and took a deep breath. This was of no help to him now. He brought his eyes to Atreus’s and asked, _“Have you prepared yourself?”_ Atreus furrowed his brow and cocked his head against the pillow.

_“For the wait?”_

_“No. That I will have to choose.”_

_“Between him and I?”_

_“Yes.”_ As the word left his lips, Atreus sank back into his usual demeanor. Easy, self-assured. His grin was soft about the corners with pity. He brushed the back of his fingers along Kratos’s temple. He knew well before Atreus spoke that he had not been taken seriously.

_“I have told you before, I do not think it will come to that,”_ said Atreus. His tone was patient and loving as if he were explaining the falsehood of a nightmare. Kratos tightened his jaw. Though it vexed him to have his concerns cast aside as childish fears, he was not angry. Atreus did not mean to patronize him. It was simply his nature and did not deter him from pressing.

_“It might.”_

_“It might,"_ Atreus agreed, _"but it will not.”_ He spoke calmly and with conviction. Kratos failed to share his confidence. The boy was angry and demanding he leave. While he would admit it was an extreme, that did not make it dismissible.

_“How are you so sure?”_

_“Because I am. He is confused. Upset. And while I do not think he is particularly fond of either of us right now, he will be again.”_ Atreus patted him twice on the cheek, his face had fallen into something more somber. His tone threatened the edge of being stern, yet remained in good nature. Kratos listened and did not interrupt. _“I have said it before, and I will continue to— all you can do is give him time.”_  

Though Atreus had not been completely incorrect in his assumption, Kratos’s troubles encompassed more than just his son. His question had been meant to address another matter. A subject he was not quite brave enough to approach. He forced the words from his throat anyway. 

_“This does not concern him.”_

_“Ah,”_ said Atreus, sounding as if he had cracked a rather bothersome riddle. His brows reached for his hairline. _“Then what is it about?”_ Kratos answered quickly, knowing himself well. If he thought about it another moment too long, he would never speak it aloud.

_“You.”_

Though his body blocked the majority of light from the fire, he could not miss the confusion that took hold of Atreus’s expression. His frown made him look much older, the age lines bracketing his mouth deepening. He shook his head. _“I am afraid I do not follow.”_

_“Will you be alright?”_ Kratos asked, by way of elaboration.

_“Will I be alright? Of course I will be alright.”_ Kratos dropped his gaze from Atreus’s tight smile, focusing instead on the coarse furs they shared. Weeks ago, Atreus had told him _you are not alone in having wished for your life to end._ At the time it had not concerned him. Isolation had driven him mad. For Atreus, there was no greater fear than being alone. After the desolation had laid its claim to the village, he had been forced to live it, unsure if he would ever speak to another living being again. As unjust as it felt to send him home with that knowledge, his son came first. Surely Atreus understood that. _“I know you do not want me to be lonely, but I have survived it for this long. If all else fails, I am sure we can remain friends.”_ Atreus’s final words drew Kratos’s attention back to his face. Their argument from the woods came back to him at once, Atreus’s words rang in his mind— _By sunrise I am expected to become your comrade, which is something I have never been._ Kratos shook himself free and pressed.

_“That is also not what I meant.”_

When Atreus only sighed, he was confident he knew of what he spoke. His eyes wandered down along the curve of Kratos’s chest. He did not rush him. He waited, silent and patient as a stalking cat. When Atreus spoke again, he did so with his grip tight on his arm. _“I know,”_ he said, his admission quiet and shameful. _“I will not do anything drastic. I know you are here. I know you will still care deeply for me regardless of what happens. I will never forget that, and I will not put that pain on you. You have lost enough.”_ He brought his eyes back to Kratos’s own. _“Do you trust me?”_

_“Yes.”_ Of course he did. There came not a moment where he did not.

_“Good. I am glad to hear it. You should not have to worry about me. Your focus needs to be on your son. The heartbreak he feels is one we cannot begin to imagine.”_ Kratos said nothing, unconvinced. Atreus’s safety was entirely of his concern. He could not chance losing him. After a few moments, Atreus seemed to understand as he made another attempt to soothe him. _“I am the happiest I have been in a very long time. Your son disliking me does not change that.”_ He cared deeply for the boy, it was no secret. Enjoyed the time he had spent caring for him. There were moments Kratos believed he found more joy in interacting with his son than with anyone else, that he thought of him as being his own. _“Look at me.”_ Kratos did as he was told. _“If I must leave, then I must leave. In this moment, there is nothing that can prevent it. All we can do is pray and wait.”_

The world narrowed down to the thump of his heart. Kratos could focus only upon a single word. _“Pray?”_

_“Ah, yes,”_ Nervous laughter fell between his words as snow did the trees. _“I suppose there is no we in that, is there?_ I _will be praying.”_

_“I see.”_ The words were broken and betrayed. In vain, he had hoped Atreus would loosen his hold on the gods. How could he still worship them? How could he want to sing their praises? Kratos had convinced himself that any mention Atreus made of them was out of habit and not abiding belief. Though he was not aware of every detail, Kratos had told him enough to prove their true nature. They had taken everything from him, had claimed the lives of his family. Because of Ares, he had spilled the blood of his child. For the rest of his days, Kratos would remember the scrape of his knife against wood, the hours he spent home from war carving her a flute. The hours she spent playing it for him. Mercifully, as the decades passed, he could no longer recall the tune. 

_“You are_ _upset_ _,”_ said Atreus, his observation was unintelligent, yet he spoke as if he could not understand why. Deep within his chest, Kratos’s rage begin to smolder. _“I know you do not believe as you once did, but I do. They have never given me reason to lose my trust.”_

_“They are dead, Atreus.”_

Atreus’s confidence was true and honest, evident in each word he spoke. _“And yet they still bless me.”_ Kratos stared at him, lost. Neither their slayings or his past mattered. Would anything be enough of a cause for him to cease his praise? Did Atreus simply chose to overlook how they had ruined him? Turned him into a monster and laid his wife and daughter in the path of his bloodlust? Had their roles been reversed, he would have renounced his devotion the moment he learned of their transgressions. Had something ever hurt Atreus so severely, he would do all in his power to separate himself from it, to bring as much harm to it as it had done to him. Kratos felt hollow. Empty. Why would he not do the same?

_“I was loyal to them.” More so than you,_ he does not say. _“Why did they wrong me?”_ His voice was weak, small and injured. He tried to rouse himself, wall off his emotions. What Atreus chose to do was none of his concern. He had devoted his life to Olympus, traded it, and had been deceived. If that was what Atreus wished to align himself with, then there was no need to do anything more than let it go. His praise did not put them in danger. Had he not misspoke, Kratos would never have known. Unfortunately, it had been far easier to live in ignorance. Now, he could hardly bring himself to look Atreus in the eye. 

_“I would dare to say that it was not you who was wronged_.”

Kratos’s attention snapped to him, breakneck. His mind stuttered to a stop, dumbfounded by Atreus’s claim. He withdrew his touch and brought his arms close to himself. Beneath the wraps, his wounds itched, crawling. He resisted the urge to touch them. _“What?”_ Slowly, he began to rally his thoughts. For some of his misfortunes, he had only himself to blame; he would not argue that. But it did not change how the gods had been driven by the evils in Pandora’s box. Ares had been slain in a justified act of revenge, after which he had continued his service. His father had grown insatiable for power. Paranoid. He did only what he had to do. Atreus did not know everything, he reminded himself. He had left many details to his imagination. He could not fault him for that.

_“Kratos. This is not a discussion I wish to have with you, but if you are so eager, I will.”_ Atreus spoke as if he were reprimanding a child, his voice carrying a note of hardness as he played the role assigned to him. It filled Kratos with a sense of foreboding like none other. _“You swore your life to the gods, knowing you would be in servitude for the rest of your days. While I agree their methods may have been unpleasant, and you did not deserve what horrors they wrought… the moment you called upon Ares meant to suffer in whatever way he saw fit for as long as he saw it. You knew as well as any other—”_

_“I was—”_

_“Do not interrupt. Listen to me. You asked for help and received it. You were bound to serve regardless of the circumstances, were you not? You knew what you were agreeing to. In my eyes, it was a fair trade. You would not be here if it were not for him. You gave yourself for him to craft as he wished, and if that meant you were marked by the blades you were gifted, so be it. While it does not excuse what he did to your family—”_ His veneration blinded him to the spilling of innocent blood. Blood that had stained Kratos in every sense. Perhaps he was more of a Spartan than they believed. Ares had planted his family in harm’s way, yes, but Kratos was a husband and a father. His thirst for glory had overpowered any and all instinct to protect them. Their terrified faces, screams had not been enough to cut through his rage. He could feel Calliope still, her blood hot and slippery though his fingers, her dead weight lolling in his hands. Abruptly, he stood, the furs from the bed slipped to the floor and laid limply at his ankles. His heart thundered. The house was stifling. Suffocating. He needed air. He needed _out._ _“Kratos._ Kratos—” Atreus reached for his wrist, swiped out to grab hold of him before he could leave. Kratos yanked his arm beyond his reach. He looked down his nose at him briefly, Atreus stared back, strewn across the bed on his elbows in his attempt to stop him. Neither of them spoke. Kratos turned, Mimir watching wordlessly from the table, his eyes following him out. He slammed the door.

The snow burned beneath his feet, a reminder that he’d stormed out severely underdressed and without a weapon. It would be fine. He needed only a few moments. The chill was grounding, soothing the burn of his blood. He would clear his head and return inside. Go to sleep and move on. It was pitch out, the cloud coverage masking the moon and stars. The trees stood like massive shadowy skeletons around the house, looming over him in the wind. He watched them for a moment, allowing the distraction to push his daughter from his mind. The snow swirled, wet against his skin. He breathed, the air crisp and dry, painful in his chest. Carefully, he began to unravel what had transpired, desperate to understand. Atreus had not meant to hurt him. He was sure of it. He had never harbored malicious intent before, and there was surely no reason to start now. With tensions as high as they had been, it was only a matter of time until one of them lashed out. It was surprising for it to be Atreus, yes, but he was only a man. To expect him to always be civil was unfair. Kratos was no better, expecting him to abandon the only piece of his homeland he had left. The night he had meant to tell him everything, he had told him almost nothing. Knew that he never would. Regardless, the truth did not change what he was. He was selfish. He was a monster. All around him, the trees shuddered like chains.

Light spilled across the snow in a warm stream, narrowed until it vanished. Kratos did not look. He knew who it was. Atreus came to his side and did not speak a word to him. Did not touch him. Kratos held his head straight and did not move a single muscle. Together, they regarded the woods. “I do not know if you will be able to forgive me, but I cannot not let them go. When I came here, they were both my company and my comfort, and there is nothing in me willing to deny the ways in which I have been blessed. They kept me alive. They brought me you.” Kratos said nothing in the subsequent pause, a very conscious decision not to begin another contention. Atreus reached to take him by the forearm. He allowed it, turning his attention to him. It was hard to make out his expression in the dark, but the frown he wore was unmistakable. “I know they have wronged you. I know you sought revenge in hopes it would mend your mistakes. And I believe you, but I cannot let go of my faith because of it. It is all I have left of Sparta. Perhaps I did not agree with its ways, but it is my heritage, and I am proud of it.”

“And what of your dory?” Atreus laughed, thrown off guard by Kratos’s sudden resort to humor.

“And that. And you." Grin unwavering, he said, "Be _serious_.” Kratos grunted noncommittally. Atreus shuffled to stand in front of him and took his hands in his own. “I have depended on them my entire life, and they have yet to lead me to doubt them. I know I do not deserve their guidance. I was disloyal— it is likely they stopped listening to my prayers the moment I abandoned Spartan soil. Perhaps I am just lucky.”

“Perhaps you are. The gods bring no good.” Atreus made a soft noise, as if he were about to share something particularly enlightening.

“But they do," he said, voice wondrous of forces that reigned no more. "You are blind to it, and rightfully so. You have no reason to trust them, you are right.” For several moments, he did not dare speak. Atreus's earlier outburst had left him uneasy. Kratos searched his face for dishonesty. All he found was kindness. A hint of sorrow in the draw of his brow, regret in the gleam of his eyes. He dropped his head and stared at the ground. Atreus was barefoot, his feet dark against the glistening snow. 

“How can you pray knowing they are dead by my hand?”

“I do not know, but I can and I do. That is all that matters.” His words were soft, crowded with conviction, yet polite. He spoke it as fact because it was. Atreus squeezed his hands, his grip a frozen vice. Kratos’s belly rolled like a ship in rough waters. How often had he lain with him in bed, vulnerable and ignorant, while Atreus prayed next to him? Gave his thought and his time— his respect— to the very powers that had stripped him of all he was, rebuilt from the ashes a version of himself unrecognizable. Kratos swallowed his stomach back down his throat. It seemed this was something he would have to accept. No amount of opposition would change Atreus’s ways. Unfortunate as it was, his tolerance did not suggest he would ever understand.

Kratos took a breath, savoring how it burned in his chest, and said, “It troubles you that I no longer praise them.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.”

“How come?”

“I, ah.” Atreus fumbled for the right words, his breath a pale billow between them. He shifted his weight between his feet. Kratos watched him, ever patient, until Atreus found his composure and his voice. “I suppose it is just a piece of you I feel is missing.” Long ago, there had been a time where he trusted the gods with all he was. Never had he been as forthright as Atreus, but he’d had faith. Atreus had left him to venture to these lands as such, a good Spartan, loyal to Olympus. Found him again as a faithless and broken man. Though this was a topic he did not care to explore, he should have anticipated that Atreus would wish to. Resigned to his fate, Kratos grunted, the noise nearly lost as the wind tore between them. Somehow, Atreus had heard. He raised his brows and asked, “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“It must be something,” Atreus met his eyes in the dim, his hands wandering to rub Kratos’s arms, as if in attempt to warm him. His voice came again, sweet and coaxing, “You can tell me.” They needed to go in, get out of the weather, but Atreus's words backed him into a corner. Kratos felt he should speak, prove to Atreus that he was trustworthy yet. It took him a long while to formulate a response.

“You left me nothing to bury.”

“Yes,” Atreus said, the word slow and unsure, encroaching upon the territory of becoming a question. “Is that not something we should be thankful for?”

“It is,” Kratos agreed. So much remained unspoken between them. Things he would never find it within himself to say. All the decades he’d spent with blame at his feet. That he’d left his body to be tossed with the others into a mass grave. Or worse, left him somewhere out there to rot, to be picked apart by harpies. He’d spent many a day and night devoured by his guilt, the knowledge that with no proper burial, Atreus’s soul would never find rest. He would never see Elysium. Wondering if he had searched harder, longer, more thoroughly, then perhaps he would have recovered him. Or at least a part of him. Something. Anything. He had been a captain, with a few simple words, he could have enlisted the help of his men. It had been no secret he and Atreus were close. It was unlikely any of them would have questioned it, read between the lines. Instead, he had become frenzied with worry, passing the bodies with little thought to scrutinize them. For years he had dreamed of the opposite. That he had kept his head, found him moments before giving in and walking away. Carried him home on his shield as the war hero he was. Like his father had been. Saw to it he was buried properly, wrapped in red linens and olive leaves. Given a fine headstone. Each time he had woke, he could feel his weight in his arms. All of his grief, however, had been in vain. If only he had known what the future held all those years ago. That he would be standing barefoot in the snow as Atreus watched him, caring and expectant, in the somber silence that stretched between them. The soft smile he wore twisted into a frown. The subtle movement brought Kratos to the present. “I could not carry you home.” Atreus reached to frame his face with his hands.

“Oh, my love. That was not your duty.”

The words carried all the finality of a shutting door. Kratos pressed regardless, years of regret a force like no other. “And you would not have done the same?”

“I would have, but I never expected that of you.” Atreus’s words were gentle, downtrodden. His guilt was tangible, visible in the slant of his shoulders. Kratos yearned to touch him. To comfort, yet he could not bring himself to move. Atreus gripped his arms and smiled stiffly at him, then dropped his hands to his sides. The wind stirred his hair, picked at the canvas of his tunic. They needed to return to the house, seek the warmth of their bed, the fire. Atreus averted his eyes to the ground and then to the treeline. The next several moments stretched on for an eternity. Kratos spoke with every intention of closing their conversation and ushering them indoors.

“My point stands, faith has brought me no comfort.” Humorlessly, Atreus laughed, breathy and despondent. 

“And I am no longer welcome in Elysium’s fields.” It was very well the closest he would get to Atreus surrendering his faith. His admittance was something Kratos could say nothing against. Deserting battle was traitorous and cowardly. There was little hope for his soul now, too selfish and weak to be a true warrior. No amount of devotion would be enough to redeem him. He drew in a deep breath and fixed Kratos with a bright smile. “Come. We will be lucky if we have ten toes between the two of us come morning.” He extended a hand and Kratos took it, lacing their fingers. Atreus's determination to put this behind them was infectious. Inside the house, they locked out the wind and snow. Mimir cracked open an eye as they passed, but by the time Kratos fed a few logs to the fire and followed Atreus to bed, he had closed it again. He was guided by the nape of his neck to lie on Atreus's chest, the ticklish brush of lips against his scalp a wordless bid goodnight. Sleep came easier than he expected, sucking him under with an efficient grace.

The next morning, they woke to his son prodding the fire, over which cooked a single cut of meat. Kratos moved to assist him, handling his breakfast without so much as a word. Atreus was soon to join them, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching as the boy ate. Kratos caught his gaze and willed him not to speak. Atreus smiled weakly, looked away, guilty. Trusting him to leave the boy be, Kratos returned to the bed to lace his boots. He was interrupted almost immediately, as Atreus came to stand next to him. "No, no, there is no need for that." He reached to grasp Kratos by the shoulder and continued quietly in Greek. _“I will go, it is best you stay home with your son_ .” Kratos paid him no mind, pulling the wraps tight around his calf. _“Kratos.”_ Convinced by the severity in his tone, he stilled, sitting up straight with one boot on and the other held between his hands. The leather was supple with wear under his fingertips. As tremendously as Kratos wished to leave, escape the discomfort that grew between himself and his son, he could not run forever. Atreus was right. It _was_ best he stay. Nothing would be repaired in a day. He may as well learn to endure it now.

“Fine,” he said, though he pulled on his other boot. Atreus beamed. With his eyes, Kratos traced the knots in the wood floor as Atreus dressed for the weather and gathered his dory, his knife. His parting farewell was returned by no one. The door closed loudly in the quiet. 

Kratos spent the next several minutes gathering the courage to speak to his child. They were alone. If there was anything the boy had to say, it was best he do it when Atreus could not hear. “Atreus.” The boy graced him with no answer. Did not so much as turn to look at him. He tried once more. _“Boy.”_ Again, he did not budge. 

“What? Don’t you have something else to be doing?” 

Kratos felt frustration stir within him and ground it down. _Give him time._ He stood and moved for the door, grabbing Leviathan along the way. The head stopped him as he approached. “Brother, can I beg a moment of your time?” Kratos stilled and considered him for a moment. He had half the mind to continue on as if he hadn’t heard. Instead, he grabbed him by the rope and fashioned him to his belt. Out into the snow, the weather was mild and Atreus was nowhere in sight. Neither of them spoke until he had gone around to the back of the house and began to split more wood for the fire. “I’m sure you think I got many words for you. Oh, and I do! But I reckon you’ve been through enough. I just got a _rather_ _simple_ favor to ask… I’d like for you to never expect my help in lying to your boy again.” Kratos heaved Leviathan over his head. It cracked down and through its mark, the force jarring his elbows, his shoulders. 

“I did not ask you to.”

_“Oh,_ I know,” the head said, Kratos’s sour mood doing little to discourage him. “That’s the best part, I think! That you just assume I’ll go along with all this _shit_ you cook up.” Kratos heard him take in a deep breath. It was no surprise when he spoke again that his tone had quietened, the sharp edge painstakingly rounded off his words. “With all due respect, what I’m trying to say here is that I’ve been sticking my neck out enough for you. _And_ I don’t even have one! If you know what I mean, brother.” Kratos grunted. Affirmative. The head was angry that he had inadvertently turned his son against him. Understandable. It was no surprise. He was possibly the boys closest friend. While Kratos had never meant for his dishonesty to interfere with that, he would make no excuses.

“I have nothing more to hide. This will not happen again.”

“You really expect me to believe that you don’t? You’re the _bloody—”_

“I know what I am,” Kratos said, bringing his axe down with more effort than necessary. Mimir jostled against his hip. 

“Of course you do. Then you should also know you’ve got plenty of skeletons to keep graves for. Both of the physical and metaphorical sort.” Kratos did not oblige him with a response. They had enough to handle as it was. The nature of his relationship with Atreus was unavoidable. Something he could not have hid forever. As for the remainder of his secrets, he left them in the ashes of Greece. It was not like he would one day stumble upon his wife or daughter wandering these woods. Deimos. His mother. His men. The gods. They were dead, gone forever. He knew it, had done so with his own hands. The head, though likely aware his conversation was one-sided, continued. “I try to mind both my business _and_ my tongue when it comes to your son, but I think I deserve a say in what’s going on here. If anything, it’s for the fact that each time I get wrapped up in one of your fibs, he’s the one that winds up hurting the most. I’m sure as his father you understand that.”

Levithan struck down, the shear and thud of its blade filling the woods around them. Kratos could not argue.

~

The soldiers returned at noon, when the midday sun was hot and blazing. The news had been fast to travel through the herds, had them bustling with it all morning. Kratos had quietly hoped his herder would be kind enough to grant them free time, to give them an opportunity to slip into the heart of Sparta and watch them file in. They did so with the younger boys. Something Kratos’s herd had not been allowed for years; it was foolish to hope for such a mercy now. His form had been sloppy all morning; he had come closer to tasting the wrong end of a dory more times than he would like to admit. His desperation to see Atreus alive warranted more punishment than reward.

Unfortunately, midday came, and his herd was given time for sport. Horseback riding. Hunting. Useful skills. It was not time to be squandered on profitless activities, such as scurrying off-grounds to ensure one’s inspirer had survived his first battle. Kratos did so, anyhow. It would only be for a moment, long enough to see his face, then he would scurry back to the woods. Pretend as if he had been hunting the entire time. The city was much as he remembered it. It had been so long since he last walked the trodden dirt. It reminded him severely of Deimos, but he would not let himself be distracted. For the sake of his flesh, he needed to be swift and alert. He loathed to consider what punishment would await him should he be caught. In the main plaza, people gathered in a thick, tight-knit crowd. Kratos pushed his way though. Sweat crawled down his back, his robes sticky with it against his skin. Between the sun and the heat of bodies, it was sweltering, but it mattered none. Atreus could be dead. And if he were not, it was likely that several days would pass until he found opportunity to come to him. Kratos could not bear to wait that long. He glanced frantically between the soldiers as they marched, their faces obscured by their helmets. Moments passed, as did they. Panic seized his heart, wracking his body with a violent rush of adrenaline. He ducked between two women in front of him, pushing them aside to get closer, stood up on his toes to see over a man’s shoulder. Just as he opened his mouth to call for him, a hand closed tightly around his arm, yanked him down on his heels. His blood ran cold as the river did. He needn’t look to know who it was. His herder. Out of respect, he turned to him. Knowing both his excuses and his apologies were pointless, Kratos held his tongue.

He had been dragged back to camp and whipped. Spent the rest of the day with his open wounds blistering in the sun. Blood had wept from them for what felt like ages, baking into itchy clots on his skin. He could have wept with joy come sunset, when the heat grew bored of torturing him and retreated. With it came his herd. As they bedded down, he dozed, teetering in and out of consciousness. The slightest shift would send pain searing through him, rest a nigh-impossible relief. Eventually, blessedly, exhaustion stole him away and pulled him under.

He woke to the scrape of grit underfoot, someone kneeling next to him. He lifted his head, hissing as he tried and failed to get his arms under himself. Atreus. It was Atreus. Safe and alive and, from what he could glimpse, completely intact. A pair of hands reached for him and encouraged him to lie flat again. He counted the fingers. Ten. Good. Perfect. _“Atreus.”_

_“Shh._ I know. I am here. What happened to you?”

“Whipped,” Kratos explained through his teeth. Despite the hurt, he grinned, head down against his mat to hide it. Atreus had survived. By the gods, he hoped this was not a dream. He turned his head slowly to see him. Atreus met his eyes with a small smile. 

“Were you? It looks more like you fell during a spar.” 

“That is because I did.”

“Ah, well, it is good to see your injuries were rather minor.”

He had missed this more than he could fathom. “How kind of you to remind me. I had forgotten them.”

“And mistaken them for a flogging.” Atreus chuckled, struggled to keep his voice below a whisper. Kratos sank his teeth into his cheek, fishing for a retort. Before he could think of one, Atreus spoke again, more seriously. “Look at you— I have not been gone that long! Have you been causing enough trouble for the both of us?”

“I could not wait any longer to see you.” There was a stunned silence wherein Kratos heard him inhale deeply. He closed his eyes in preparation to be chastised in front of his entire herd. As if the elders had not already given him what he deserved. To his surprise, no lecture came. Instead, Atreus sighed. 

“Did I not promise I would do everything to return to you?” He sounded disappointed, his voice nearly lost in the babbling of the river.

“You did,” Kratos said, mumbling his words into the reeds. Shame smothered him like a damp linen. His distress had been distrust.

“I did. Come, then. I think we have disturbed your friends enough, haven’t we?” The words startled him out of his sulking. Atreus wanted him to move? _How?_ He could barely lift his head, let alone stand or walk. He looked to him, cheek pressed to his mat, in hopes his eyes would convey his pleas. Atreus laughed quietly. “Do not look at me like that. You have suffered worse, and if you have not, you will.” He stood, and Kratos did not dare to try. Atreus did just as he feared he would, grabbing him under the arms and pulling him up to his feet. He had not so much as changed positions all day, the shift of his muscles enough to send agony down to his toes. For a moment, Kratos hung dead in his grip before he could remember how to use his feet. Clumsily, they found their way beneath him. “See?” said Atreus. “That was not so bad. I have you.” He brought Kratos’s arm around his shoulders, his other hand supporting him by the waist. Kratos leaned breathless and heavy against him, and allowed Atreus to walk him upriver and toward the woods. They came to a stop just before the treeline and turned toward the bank. Kratos glanced to him, then to the ground, where the rocks bit against the soles of his feet. 

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the water. Your wounds need cleaned.” Kratos only grunted, letting himself be led without further protest. He could do it himself come morning, when the soreness had lessened, but there was no use in arguing. If Atreus wanted to care for him, then he would be cared for. At the edge, they halted. Atreus untied his cloak, cast it off in the dirt. His were soon to follow, leaving Kratos to struggle on his weak legs as they threatened to give under his weight. He felt like a colt, wobbling so, but he could not help noticing that Atreus’s robe was new, pristine and red as fresh blood. His lay next to it in a heap, frayed and tattered beyond measure. He had lost track of when they would be issued new ones, at this point he cared little. Wore his rags with pride, a visible testimony of how hard he worked. How hard he fought. Atreus ducked back beneath his arm, drawing his eyes from their clothes and to the water. The river gurgled in greeting as they waded in, cold at their shins. Kratos dreaded the thought of sitting in it, regretted how he had cursed the day’s heat. But he did not dare protest, even as Atreus helped him ease down into the shallows. His wounds stung anew as the water lapped at his back. Atreus wasted no time, promptly beginning to clean them. Kratos sank his teeth into his lip without a sound, searching desperately for something to distract himself with. There was nothing. Just the open training grounds and the river. The sky full to bursting with stars. Boys on their mats dotting the banks. 

Finally, he said, “I think that is enough.” He had meant it as a joke, yet Atreus did not laugh. Water dribbled from his cupped hands and ran down Kratos’s shoulders. He swiped gently at where the blood had dried.

“I have only begun. Be patient.” Kratos waited for several moments for him to speak again. When he did not, he turned to look over his shoulder, finding Atreus’s face grim, set into a frown. His eyes were fixed hard on what he was doing, as if it actually required a fair amount of concentration.

“Atreus.” It earned him a glance and a fleeting smile. Worry started a steady gnaw in his stomach.

“Hm?”

“You are quiet.”

“Am I?” Kratos could hold his position no longer, the crane of his neck tugging the split flesh. He faced forward again and raked his fingers through the silt. “I do not mean to be. I suppose I am worried about you. These are deep.”

His last attempt at humor had fallen flat, Kratos yet again endeavored. Anything to lift his spirits. “I am not going to die,” he said, rummaging through his memory for the words. “I resume training tomorrow. If—” Atreus cut him short with a noise of acknowledgement. 

“If the elders thought you unfit, they would have tossed you onto the hillside and not your bed, yes. Do not think I fail to realize what you are doing. Using my words against me.”

"Against you?"

"Did you cry?” Kratos could not help his grin. Though Atreus sat behind him, he hung his head to hide it. Immediately, he regretted the action as it pulled the skin taut between his shoulders. Reflexively, he looked up, huffing a pained breath. 

“I…” He flailed for how Atreus had answered, but that had been so long ago, and the pain made it impossible to focus. Atreus tutted at his lack of response.

“That is what I thought.” Still, his voice lacked its usual cheerfulness. Very carefully, Kratos turned to peek at him. His face was impassive as he poured another handful of water down his side. He pulled away. Without the grime, Kratos found it a bit easier to move. He shifted around to face him. The trees waved in the distance, welcoming. Beckoning them to come, sit in the dirt as they always did. Something was different about tonight, however. Atreus wasn’t quite what he’d been when he left all those weeks ago. Kratos wondered what it was that he had seen. What it was that made him change. The water licked at their chests, lazy caresses that broke out their skin with goosebumps. Kratos placed a hand on Atreus’s knee. Atreus offered him an insincere grin.

“How many did you kill?” There was no stopping how the question spilled from his mouth. He had spent many hours trying to envision it— Atreus driving his dory through the hearts of his enemies. Disinclined as he acted, there was no doubting his skill. He was a soldier. Kratos could stand to keep his ponderings to himself no longer. The moonlight was pale and sparing, yet he could see Atreus’s expression twist with shock. Disgust. It was gone as fast as it had come, replaced by a tight smile. Atreus reached for his shoulder. His touch was gentle, his fingers shook. It did nothing to stop Kratos from prattling off another question. “How many men were lost?”

“I do not think I have ever heard you be so forward,” said Atreus, feigning both his politeness and his laugh, “or curious.” It was true. Kratos was desperate to experience war. Too see it for himself. He had spent his entire life waiting, and finally there was someone who had gone and would answer his every question. “But all I will tell you is too many.”

“Spartans?” He had wanted details. Atreus surely knew better than to be so vague.

“Since it is me you are asking, both sides. If you believe you have seen your share of death here, I advise you to wait.” Kratos watched him closely, hanging on every word. Atreus brushed his fingers over his scalp. Fat droplets of water rolled down his temples. The touch was tender, loving. If only he had been willing to wait. If it weren’t for his punishment, he would gladly spend the rest of the night curled in Atreus’s arms. “But you will be a proper warrior soon enough! You will see battle for yourself, and if your head is right on your shoulders, you will be just as I am.”

“And what are you?” he asked, tone harsher than he meant for it to be. He was not a child to be sheltered. Regardless of what Atreus had seen, whatever he had experienced, allowing it to haunt him was nothing short of weak. He would see battle again and soon. The only escape was death, and both of them knew it was a choice he could not take. For all the reasons he cared not to ponder, Kratos needed him. Atreus would simply have to recuperate and overcome. Killing was necessary, as was death. Men that fell were held in high regard, laying their lives before their state and giving themselves for its glory. No more deserving of a death existed.

“I do not know. Something I have never been before.” He thought for a moment, choosing his next word carefully. “Terrified?”

“And yet that did not matter. Your training proved sufficient.”

Atreus’s eyes followed where the moonlight swept across the surface of the river. He laughed, albeit humorless. “I suppose you are right.” 

“I am. You are skilled.” Kratos was not often to compliment. Atreus met his eyes and touched his arm beneath the water, trailed his fingers down to find his. Kratos laced them together and reached for his other hand, which met him halfway. 

“Thank you,” said Atreus, though his voice faltered. Kratos paid it no mind. Atreus’s troubles were his own. His words were of little use; there was nothing more he could do to help. 

Indifferent to Atreus’s turmoil, his curiosity grew within him like an unsatiated hunger, spurring him on. “How many did you kill?” Kratos asked, his tone cautiously well mannered. Atreus had ignored him the first time he asked, and it was with a morbid ferociousness that he wished to receive an answer. Atreus studied him for several long moments. The wind stirred, sticky and warm in juxtaposition to the chill of the water. Kratos held his gaze, unyielding.

“It was not as if I were keeping count, Kratos. As many as were necessary.” Kratos disregarded the bark in his voice. His memories preoccupied him, bubbling into his mind like a fresh spring. All the hours they’d spent bloody in the dirt, sparring until they could stand to no longer. Atreus had been enthusiastic. Treated his training as a harmless child’s game. Kratos had reason to believe he genuinely enjoyed it, his smile and laugh telling no tales. It was a stark contrast to the man who sat before him now. Skin glistening with wet from the river, hollowed out by the horrors of carnage to which he had bared witness. Kratos found a slippery handle on his impatience. There was much he wished to know. Atreus would only be home for so long. Any questions he sought answers to would have to be asked soon. There would be time in the coming days, but war waged outside Sparta’s borders, calling to men like sirens at sea. Atreus had yet to harken to it, but he would. A warrior’s spirit resided within him whether he realized it or not. Kratos was sure of it.

“You were afraid,” said Kratos, observant. Atreus was slow to acknowledge it, looking downriver, his eyes drawn along the current like leaves gone astray. Kratos turned his head to follow his line of sight, finding nothing but the others in the distance, sleeping fitfully on their mats. There was no reason for Atreus to be so avoidant when they both knew the truth. When he had already admitted as such. Kratos did not bring his gaze forward until Atreus shuffled close enough to knock their knees together.

“I do not think there was a moment where I was not.”

Before he could think better of it, Kratos prattled off another question, to which Atreus was much quicker to provide an answer. “Was it loud? Battle?”

“Deafening.”

“How so?”

“All the…” Atreus untangled their fingers to lift a hand out of the water, stirring it in the air between them. “The screaming,” he said, after a brief pause. As if it were somehow difficult to explain. Kratos felt himself stiffen, his sore shoulders straightening as he sat up tall, at attention, invested in each and every word. “Weapons gnashing like the teeth of Apollo’s python.” He paused and took a deep breath, as if he were about to go on, launch into the details Kratos had been chasing. Instead he said, “It is overwhelming in ways I cannot begin to describe to you.” Kratos clung to his words as would a fool. It was the closest he’d gotten to receiving a real answer. A raw one.

“Then try.” 

Atreus only laughed. “I said I cannot begin to describe it. There is nothing, I promise you. The most I can say with confidence is that it is very different than how I imagined." Kratos knew he would go no further on it. He relented.

“The soldiers that perished— did you know them?” Atreus’s face fell. There was no trace of his grin in the hard line of his mouth, in the way he struggled to hold eye contact. 

“I lost many good friends. I would rather not relive those details,” he said, after some time. “That is enough questions for one night.” Kratos dipped his head, watched where the water swirled in little eddies beside him, the bulk of his body upsetting the current. They sat in silence. He stewed in a strange brew of shame and annoyance. Overhead, the moon carefully picked its way past the stars. Kratos rubbed his fingertips together, shriveled and rough from sitting in the water for so long. They would have to return soon, find some semblance of rest before morning. He heard Atreus huff as if in humor. Curiosity piqued, he stole a glimpse just as a hand caught him beneath the chin and lifted his head. Atreus kissed him with every tenderness there ever was, closed-mouthed and perfect. He brought up his other hand from the water, cradled his face between them, calloused and chilled and dewy. Kratos clutched his forearms, between rough scabs and scrapes, the skin prickled with gooseflesh to meet his hold. When they separated, neither of them bothered to check over their shoulders. They had been kept apart long enough. It was well worth any punishment the elders would serve. Atreus thumbed the crests of his cheekbones in parting before returning his hands to the water, to Kratos's. Something inside himself warmed at the familiar squeeze they gave. There would not come a day where he would not thank the gods for this. “Every moment I spent awake, I prayed that I would come back to you.” Atreus had returned home with minor bumps and bruises. Though Kratos credited his training more than any miracle worked, the gods had allowed them both their wishes. He himself has spent many a night knelt on his mat, silently pleading with Athena to see Atreus through battle, to give him the wisdom and the courage and the strength he required. Atreus took a shaky breath, as if he were readying to speak. Kratos stroked a thumb along his knuckles, preparing himself for whatever he was to tell him. In the pause before he began, the river babbled like a babe, dumb and innocent. “I dread the next time I am sent,” he said, as quiet as a secret. “Each time they send me away, it is to gamble my life. My brothers’ lives. I may have survived this time, but what is to say of the next? Or the time after that? How can you find peace in knowing this is going to be the rest of our lives?”

“It will not be. All good soldiers see retirement,” Kratos said, cutting in quick and sharp like the lash of a whip. Atreus was spiralling, growing more frantic with every word he spake. He chose his words swiftly and carefully, an arduous task. “What is to say is that you have survived it once, and you can manage to again.” The logic was simple, but it was enough. Atreus relaxed, albeit marginally. The furrow of his brow smoothed. His shoulders slumped. The stars twinkled in their reflections. “You are a good soldier, Atreus. Trust that.”

Suddenly drained of his fight, Atreus said, “I hope you are right.” He was tired, the shadows under his eyes deep and dark. There was no telling the last he slept. “Regardless, I am home now. That is all that matters.” His lips turned up about the corners. “I have kept you long enough, haven’t I? You need to rest— and to heal.” He stood. Kratos watched as his skin erupted in gooseflesh. Water ran down his thighs in rivulets. Atreus extended a hand, which Kratos was reluctant to take. The water had kindly dulled the smart of his wounds. Going back to his herd was to return to suffering. To pain and to being alone. Unfortunately, he was left with no real choice. “Easy, Kratos,” Atreus reminded him as he hauled himself up. The movement agitated the skin along his back, and he stifled his grimace. The wind caressed him. Behind them, the trees whispered, leaves stirring in the breeze. Kratos pulled away from where Atreus’s hands hovered. He dragged his feet through the silt, each step an agonizing limp. The bank met him muddy and soft. He dreaded to step up onto it, to have to bend and gather his cloak from the ground. Lashes or no, he would have make do. Atreus had just returned from fighting a war. If he still had the strength to care for them both, Kratos could surely manage to dress himself. He came upon his robes sooner than he wished, as if they had somehow managed to crawl closer to shore. With a sharp, steeling breath, Kratos forced himself over at the waist. Pain tore up his spine, tail to shoulder with red-hot misery. He grit his teeth and untangled his cloak from Atreus’s. As he pulled himself up straight, something hit him across the flank. Frigid. Wet. Smelling suspiciously of the river. His surprise had loosened his grip; his robes slipped back to the ground in a heap. Kratos bit back his groan of frustration, turning to find Atreus still in the water, smile smug and proud. Had he been capable of it, Kratos would have trudged back into the water and attempted to drown him. His irritation dissipated the moment their eyes met. To see Atreus as he was, childish, playful, _happy,_ was an answer to a plea Kratos had yet to pray. He played along, tone harsh with displeasure. “I see war has changed you.”

Atreus laughed and began to wade toward the bank. _“Madness._ I am no different.”

“You are unmerciful,” said Kratos. Atreus stooped to splash him again. Kratos rubbed the water from his eyes. “I am injured and defenseless. You are at an unfair advantage.” 

“Then let this be your lesson for tonight— you must always expect an attack, especially when you are an easy target.” Atreus came to stand in front of him, tall and lean. Kratos did not pay mind to his body. It was not often they were completely unclothed, and had it not been for his impatience, this would have been a rare indulgence. Instead, they sat in the river until their fingers pruned. Other opportunities would find them. Eventually.

_“Ares, spare me.”_ Atreus tossed back his head and cackled. Kratos took the moment to glance down, to where bruises mottled his skin, dark along his ribs, his legs. He breathed, deeply grateful for Atreus’s safe return. For the only injuries he sustained to be ones of which would fade within a few days time. Too lost in his gratitude, he failed to notice the cease of laughter. Atreus's eyes were on him. Kratos readied himself for a reprimand about the brutality of war, for how the gods had spared him, for how they may not do so again. About how men called out to be saved and no gods harkened their call. However, Atreus only glanced to each side before ducking to kiss him, quick and closed-mouthed. Kratos wet his lips as he pulled away.

_“I_ will spare you. Can you see yourself back on your own?” Kratos wanted to make another joke, something about Atreus being merciful afterall, but he could not manage it. Not with how the water weighed the ends of Atreus’s curls. How the light of the moon caught his eyes, deep and dark as honey, how the stars nestled like hatchlings in his hair, peeking through the unruly strands, shining in his smile. Even if he was not, he appeared happy, an image of himself from years past. Atreus, though bruised and wet and naked as the day he was birthed, still stunned him. Struck too breathless to speak, Kratos nodded and bent again to gather his robes. Atreus kindly tied them around his waist. As he left, Kratos looked back over his shoulder to find Atreus pulling on his cloak. He stopped with only one arm through to wave, his smile bittersweet. The wind caught the fabric, straightening it as if it were a fussy mother. “Goodnight,” he called. Kratos did not reply, dragging himself downriver and to his herd. As his skin began to warm, his wounds awoke, burning like an iron brand where they streaked down his back, the pain tracing into his ribs and flaring with each labored breath. He eased himself down on his front. He’d bitten the inside of his cheek muffling his pain, the blood a dull tang across his tongue. The dry reeds of his mat were scratchy against his skin. Another discomfort yet. Sleep came and went; a restless tide teasing relief.

~

Kratos woke to someone shaking him, incessant and by the arm. He registered the cold first, two calloused hands. Tiny. “Father. Father, wake up.” Kratos lifted his head from his pillow, squinting to focus his vision in the dark. The boy's face was grim, set with determination. Around them, the house was quiet and empty. No signs of threat. It rattled, rickety in the wind, which squeezed through the timbers as a frigid draft. At some point in the night, the fire had burned out. Figuring it was the cold that had driven the boy to his bedside, Kratos jerked his chin over his shoulder, inviting him to settle between himself and Atreus. The boy did not move. He shook his head. 

“What is it that you want?”

“I don’t wanna lie next to him.”

Kratos, mind still addled with sleep, shifted back towards the wall. He bumped into Atreus, who made neither move nor noise. Still, the boy did not come. Kratos lifted the furs, unsure how much more welcoming he could be. Yet again, the boy shook his head. “What is the matter?”

“You can't come to my bed?”

“Atreus.”

“Please, Father. Just for a little bit.” It would not fit them both. And even if it did, it would not be a comfortable arrangement. Atreus was warm against his back, still and peaceful. If he concentrated, Kratos could feel the rise and fall of his chest. It did not ease his decision making in the slightest. A moment in which he could say no to his child was a rare one, and though he was tempted to send the boy away, he felt his resolve begin to slip.

“You have yet to tell me why.”

“I had a nightmare.” They were a torture he knew far too well. Faye had comforted him religiously after his dreams, had mopped the sweat from his brow, held him, kissed him. She had done the same for their son. If Kratos were half the father he hoped to be, he would not take that from him. He turned, looking over his shoulder to ensure that they had not disturbed Atreus. He slept fitfully and on his side, facing the interior of the cabin. He was beautiful. Expression peaceful, hair a dark, messy smudge against the burlap of his pillow. Faye’s pillow. Kratos turned his attention back to the boy. A moment longer and he would have given in to the temptation of smoothing his curls back into some semblance of presentability. 

“And you cannot stay here?” For the third time, his son shook his head. Kratos sighed and pushed himself up to sit. He peeled himself from the furs and trudged heavy-limbed to the pit to see to the fire. Quick to take advantage of his father's kindness, the boy scurried back to his bed. Kratos found him nestled and waiting, pressed along the wall to make room. Kratos settled beside him, balancing his weight uncomfortably on the edge of the mattress to leave a few inches of space between them. The wood of the bedframe groaned, and for a moment he questioned his and Faye's carpentry skills. Nonetheless, it held. In caution, he braced a foot on the ground. The bed made him feel massive, and if the circumstances had been different, he was sure the boy would have been giggling at him. He had hoped for this role to be one for Atreus to fill. Perhaps with time. Even being estranged, Kratos knew he'd have been up at any hour of the night had the boy needed him.

For now, he would have to make do. At least the boy had sought him out of his own volition. If nothing else, this was progress in a favorable direction. They held eyes for a few moments. Neither of them spoke. The boy looked away, still he said nothing. Kratos was unsure if he should question him about his dream or leave it be, but sleep egged him for his return, and he gave in to it, crossing his arms over his chest. Moments passed, the wind buffeted the house. “Was it true what he told me?” His son’s voice called him back from the inky draw of slumber. Kratos opened his eyes. Shadows cast by the fire licked up the walls like mysterious beasts.

“He has told you many things.”

“About what you did to the babies.” Though the question was innocent, Kratos inwardly cringed. _You._ He meant it collectively, of course. Sparta, Spartans. Still, he rather not ponder the number of infants he’d slaughtered over the course of his destruction. He answered quickly. Hesitation would only bring about interrogation. _“I_ did nothing to them,” he clarified. “That was the work of the state.”

“Oh, I... I knew that. I just meant, like, Spartans. That they threw the sick ones out to die. Did that really happen?” 

“It did.” The boy’s face crumpled. His empathy was something his mother had been sure to instill in him. For that reason, Kratos bit his tongue. He would not chastise him for it. It was one of many necessary evils. Sickly children could not fight or breed. It had been a simple fact of life until his daughter had been born. After all, the boy was not the first sickly infant he had fathered. Calliope’s illness had infected her skin, sent him on a harrowing journey for a cure. He could still feel the emotion of seeing her for the first time. The shame of fathering an unfit child and the instinctual fear of losing her to the wilderness. Kratos breathed deeply and sat it aside. As soon as Atreus had opened his mouth, he knew his son would fret over this. And for good reason. He supposed if their roles were swapped, he would be concerned, as well. Silence dwelled, dense and cold, between them. Kratos took advantage of the moment to recall how Faye used to console him and came away with very little. He tried to gentle his voice, though it still rumbled. “Is that what you dreamt of?” The boy squirmed at the question, his reluctance to honesty obvious and tangible. He put forth much effort to seem strong in front of his father. A habit forged from a lifetime of coveting approval. Respect. While Kratos had always been well aware, only recently had he begun to feel sympathetic. This cycle was a hole he doubted either of them could crawl out from. The fault was his. Guilt came to him, singing a familiar siren song. 

Finally, he answered, “Yeah, I guess.” When he did not continue, Kratos looked to him. The boy averted his eyes to where he picked at a quilt’s frayed edge. “I got sick and you carried me outside and left me in the snow. I couldn’t walk back home so I laid there waiting for… whatever came first, you know?”

“I know.” He did not.

“I won’t get sick again.” The determination in his voice pulled on Kratos’s heart. If his sickness had caused any lasting damage, there was no way to discern if his godhood would be enough to mend it. Their answer would only come when he fell ill again. If he fell ill again. Until then, Kratos would assume and expect the worst.

Tone solemn in respect for the unknown, he said, “I trust you will keep your word.” Again, silence took hold. His son, seeming content with that, nestled deeper into his bedding. The fire crackled its usual lullaby. Through the vent, the moon weakly illuminated the bellies of clouds. They had not seen stars since the weather had turned. 

“When I was born did you want to get rid of me?”

The question was blindsiding, disruptive. Kratos’s muscles wound tight. He had no immediate response, flooded with shame of how neglectful he had been. To the point his son wondered if he had ever contemplated _killing_ him. “No.” The boy’s eyes were directed down at their feet. “Atreus,” he said, the name gritty and rough in his throat. “Look at me.” The boy’s gaze darted to the wall and then back down. Kratos hesitated, then reached for him. He turned his head by the chin, then extended his fingers to cup his cheek. “I did not.”

“But I was sick.”

“You were.”

Again, the boy looked away, toward the pit. The glow reflected in the glass of his eyes. It stirred too many memories of Faye. Of the late nights spent sitting up, talking quietly by the fireside. The boy chewed his lip before finding the courage to bring his eyes back to his father’s. “You really didn’t? Not even one time?”

“No.” The boy appeared to relax a little and Kratos withdrew his touch. For reasons beyond him, Kratos continued to speak. “In Sparta, many men did not wish to give their children to the state. It was law, and they had no choice. Some, in their desperation, would wash their infants in wine in hopes of making them strong.” The boy sat up on his elbows, the words setting a spark in his eyes, wide with wonder of a place he would never see. Kratos swallowed a noise of amusement. It seemed he had found something Atreus had yet to awe him with. He could not help but feel the tiniest bit smug for it.

“So… you washed me in wine?”

“No.”

“Oh. Is that why I got sick?”

“No. You know the nature of your illness.” The boy pursed his lips, unconvinced. Kratos floundered for something that would. “Many bathed their children for nothing. They were still taken.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yes.” The resulting hush blanketed them like an extra layer of furs. He knew it would have made no difference, but there was always a part of him yet to be uprooted from Spartan traditions. Perhaps he should have taken precautions. Washed his son properly after he was born. If nothing else, it would have given him peace of mind, that he had done all he could do to forestall his suffering. The boy shifted, stirring Kratos out of his head. He tried in vain to make more room for him as he turned onto his side and curled up. The mattress was a tight, laughable squeeze, leaving him nowhere to go. His son pulled the many layers of his bedding up to his chin and shut his eyes. Kratos took it as permission to leave, slowly pushing himself up to sit. The wooden bedframe sounded its relief as he set his feet on the ground. 

“Where are you going?”

“We agreed on a little bit.” The boy sat up, holding tight to his furs. 

“I know, I know. I just— I’m not ready for you to go.” Kratos could not spend the night teetering on the edge of his son's mattress. There was no doubt he would wake on the floor in the morning. It was an embarrassment he had every intention of avoiding, trusting he would never hear the end of it between Atreus and the head. That aside, the boy was old enough to sleep on his own, no matter what filled his dreams. If he, for whatever reason, could not then he would have to accept sharing a bed with both his father and Atreus.

“Atreus.”

_“Please,_ father.”

“You are still welcome in my bed.” The boy's face twisted and Kratos immediately regretted his words. It was late. It was cold. He did not want to stand here arguing with his child until sunrise. What he did want was to slip back beneath the furs, feel the warm press of Atreus’s body next to his and sleep for a few more hours. It seemed as though he might not get a choice in the matter. 

“You know why I don’t want to.” Kratos sighed. His son took it as an invitation to elaborate. “You seriously don’t remember? It’s Mother’s bed.”

“I do. And I told you it was hers no longer.”

“But you’re… _together.”_

“Then there is nowhere else he should be.” He met the boy’s eyes, stared down his nose at him until he crossed his arms and flopped back onto his pillow with a huff. This was an argument Kratos had every intention of ending before it began. He moved to return to bed, but his son's voice stopped him. He was muttering under his breath, as if his father were not a foot away and well within earshot. 

“How don’t you see it? You’re replacing her—” Kratos grit his molars and dropped into a crouch. Firmly, he held his stare. 

“We will not have this discussion again. I have told you the truth, it is your choice to accept it.”

“I’m not gonna accept it!” His voice was raised. Kratos hushed him. The last he needed was Atreus waking up to this. “I _hate_ him.” _Hate_ was not a word Atreus used lightly. Though he was speaking out of anger, out of resentment, the word made Kratos's blood sing a warm, warning rush. He took a deep breath. Another. He would not let this get out of hand. The boy did not mean that.

“You do not mean that.” His son shrugged, glaring past him and into the dark. Kratos could have taken the dismissal as a cue for his leave, but he did not turn out of fear that they'd woken either the head, Atreus, or both.

“It doesn't matter. Even if I do, it's not like you’re gonna make him leave.” Kratos stood, fighting to keep his demeanor calm. His anger would lead them to no resolution. He would not surrender to it. They had argued about it enough. The most he could do now was to give the boy space and time.

“Then you are right. It does not matter.” With that, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked back to bed. Atreus had rolled over in his sleep to face the wall.


End file.
